


5555

by weepies



Category: IT (2017)
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Fire, First Love, M/M, Panic Attacks, Scars, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-15
Updated: 2018-05-15
Packaged: 2019-05-07 11:52:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 28,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14670522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weepies/pseuds/weepies
Summary: “I am not harmless,” Eddie had said, his eyes thundering—a challenge. “I could ruin your life.”“I dare you,” Richie had replied, a smug smile on his face.





	5555

 

It has always been like this, the two of them settled in the suede leather seats of an old yellow pick up truck, laughing heads stuck out open car windows, junk food for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, no cares in the world, their only destination the open road as they continue to drive endlessly. At least, that is what it feels like to Richie Tozier, gazing across his car at his friend, Eddie Kaspbrak, entranced by his starry eyes, the endearing feature a disguise for the feistiness he radiates, and the strength he echoes. And though they only met a few months ago, Richie has never known a better friend.

Thinking back to their first night together always shocks Richie, makes goose bumps form across his skin, with his toes curling, his lips trembling, because with nothing but nature as a witness, he formed a pact with a complete stranger. When Richie had spotted Eddie, between the trees, he had gone over and introduced himself, the moon shining down on the both of them. There were tears in Eddie’s eyes, yet Richie pretended not to notice. Perhaps he didn’t know how to address it, or perhaps he just didn’t want to deal with it. Both boys spoke of wanting a better life, a better family, more opportunities than this small town had to offer, and Richie remembers thinking how he had never been this honest with anybody, because for some peculiar reason, being honest with a stranger is easier. It is a weight off your shoulders, a sigh of relief. It is elation, completion. That is how Richie thought of it.

“I just wish I could pick up and leave,” Richie had said, sitting beside Eddie in the grass, his face red with anger at the snarky comments his father had thrown his way, at the bottle of wine his mother had tossed to his head. “It’s not like my parents would come looking for me. They’re both assholes. Two ginormous pieces of shit. Don’t you ever wish that, Eddie? Like you could just take all your stuff with you and run away? I think about that a lot. Seems like a wet dream.”

“Well, why don’t we?” Eddie had asked, his voice thick from his tears, congested because of his allergies. To this day, it still stumps Richie that Eddie had suggested they flee. “We could go right now. It’s nearly one in the morning,” he had been checking his watch routinely, as if he had somewhere to be, but Richie assumed it was out of paranoia for his mother coming to fetch him, “We could leave now and our parents wouldn’t even know until morning. At least seven. That’s six hours to get as far away as we can.”

“You mean it?” Richie’s eyebrows had shot up, surprised, excited. “We just met. I could be a serial killer for all you know. _You_ could be a serial killer.”

“I’ve seen you around school.” And Eddie had shrugged so casually.

“That’s true. And you’re harmless,” Richie had thought out loud, and he was startled to feel a jab at his side—Eddie’s doing, a mad look on his face. It was stupid of Richie to pass judgment on Eddie; he truly didn’t know Eddie back then. Neither of them knew anything about the other. That was part of the reason Richie was so quick to agree, because he needed something new, and Eddie was new.

“I am not harmless,” Eddie had said, his eyes thundering—a challenge. “I could ruin your life.”

“I dare you,” Richie had replied, a smug smile on his face.

 

 

“Whatcha thinkin’ about?” Eddie asks, dragging Richie from his thoughts, a small hand on the seat between them. “That’s your thinking face.” _My thinking face,_ Richie thinks, hands tightening on the steering wheel, smile pulling at his lips. At Richie’s silence, Eddie raises an eyebrow and dramatically sinks back into his seat, “Fine. Don’t tell me. I don’t wanna know anyway.”

“Aw, Eds,” Richie says, the nickname slipping off his tongue real easy. “You hoping I’m thinking about you, or what?”

“You know I hate when you call me that,” Eddie says, crossing his arms, still pretending to look upset, but there is an obvious smile eating at his lips. “And I would blow chunks if you were thinking about me.”

“You’re so cute when you pretend I annoy you. And you’re a pretty good actor, too.” Richie glances over at Eddie.

“I’m not _pretending._ You really do drive me up the wall.”

Ignoring Eddie, Richie sticks his eyes back to the road, pleased to see they are the only ones out here. They are somewhere dry, though the atmosphere mirrors not the weather. With his window opened halfway, the cool autumn air is refreshing on Richie’s skin.

“Hand me a cigarette, will you?”

“You know I hate the smell of smoke,” Eddie says, but he stretches his body over and reaches his hands down toward his feet, where Richie’s jean jacket lies pitifully on the floor. He pulls a cigarette out of Richie’s pack and hands it over. Richie opens his mouth slightly, and Eddie narrows his eyes before sticking the cigarette between Richie’s parting lips. Richie then gives Eddie a certain look, and Eddie sighs. “Where’s the lighter?”

“Glove compartment,” Richie says, cigarette still resting on his pillow of a bottom lip. Eddie pops open the glove compartment and lifts the lighter over to Richie’s cigarette, flicking it on, and watching as a flame is born. This feels oddly domestic, Richie thinks, Eddie leaning over his seat to light Richie’s cigarette, all the while both Richie’s hand remain on the steering wheel. “Thanks, Eds.”

“Don’t thank me—when you get lung cancer I’m not going to be held responsible for feeding into your gross habit,” Eddie says, crossing his arms and looking out the window.

“Gee,” Richie replies, taking a drag. He pulls the cigarette between his index and middle finger, propping his hand against the steering wheel. “You’ve sure got a way with words.”

“Shut up,” Eddie says grumpily. A beat of silence passes between them before Eddie glances at the car dashboard. “I’m cold,” he mumbles, and he moves to turn the heat up. Richie ignores him and continues smoking, wondering how much longer it’ll be until they pass a motel. It’s been a while of driving, and it’ll be getting dark soon. The two of them need to find a place to stay and grab some grub. “Five miles,” Eddie suddenly says, and Richie looks over at him, brows furrowed. “Five miles until the next gas station. The sign said so. I want a slushie.”

“Maybe there’s a hotel nearby, too,” Richie thinks aloud. He takes one last drag of his cigarette before flicking it out his open window. “I could go for a slushie. Blue raspberry?”

“Cherry.” Eddie narrows his eyes at Richie. “Blue raspberry is the worst flavor. It’s not even real.”

“You’ve never had a blue raspberry?” Richie asks, feigning shock as his eyes dart from the road ahead to Eddie rolling his eyes. “They’re delicious. Probably my favorite fruit.”

“You’re so full of shit, Rich,” Eddie says with a breathy laugh. Then it is too quiet, without them talking, so Richie switches on the radio and mumbles along to the song that’s playing. He doesn’t know it too well, but he’s heard it enough to remember the chorus. “I don’t know how you remember every song you hear.”

“It’s a gift,” Richie tells Eddie. Then he bumps Eddie’s shoulder; he remembered something. “Are you feeling better? I forgot to ask.” Eddie has on and off sickness, Richie has come to realize, though it only started up about a month ago. Neither boy knows what the matter is, but Eddie experiences nausea and insomnia relatively frequently.

“Yeah. I slept last night, finally,” Eddie replies. “Thanks for asking.”

“Of course, Spaghetti. Gotta make sure you’re good. Spaghetti is top priority.”

“Oh, can it… hey, Rich?” Eddie says. Nodding his head in reply, Richie keeps his eyes on the road this time. “Do you ever think about our parents? About what they must think? Do you… do you think they’re looking for us?”

 _Absolutely not,_ is Richie’s first thought. There is no way his parents are looking; with Richie out of their hair, they finally got what they wanted. Eddie’s mother on the other hand… might be looking, or might be dead. When they first met, Eddie used to tell Richie about all the chores he had to do because his mother wasn’t _able_. Richie thinks Mrs. Kaspbrak was probably just too lazy, but if she truly is so dependent on Eddie then perhaps she died without him on standby.

“They probably gave up looking,” Richie says honestly. He can’t tell if Eddie looks disappointed with that answer, because he digs his hands into the sleeves of his orange sweater and sinks back into his seat, shielding his face. “If they were, ya know, looking for us… wouldn’t they have found us by now?” The car is silent at Eddie’s lack of reply, and before Richie knows it, he’s pulling into the parking lot of the nearby gas station. “Well, let’s go get you that cherry slushie.”

The car shuts off and Richie pushes his door open, smiling when the sharp cold air hits him in the face. He hears Eddie slam his door shut and then listens to the soft patter of his feet as he walks toward the store, but Richie just remains looking up at the sky. It is cloudy. Fall weather is enjoyable, nice and cool, perfect weather for light jackets and dark wash jeans. It is Richie’s favorite time of year, and he’s happy he gets to spend it with Eddie, his ride or die, his inevitable best friend.

“Hey, dumbass!” Richie hears Eddie call out. “You coming?” Turning toward Eddie, Richie thrusts his arms into the air, his grin widening. He lets out something of a yelp, and Eddie shakes his head as he bites back a laugh. Richie hears Eddie say, “You’re so stupid!” But if being stupid makes Eddie smile, then Richie doesn’t mind so much.

He walks toward Eddie and meets him just outside the gas station entrance. Holding the door open for Eddie jokingly, Richie presses his free arm against his stomach, bowing politely while saying, “After you, Eddie, my love.”

“You’re so ridiculous,” Eddie says, walking inside anyway. Richie follows closely and they walk to the slushie machine that’s within view of the front door. Eyeing the machine, Eddie seems pleased to find that they have his preferred flavor. Before he can reach for a cup, Richie grabs one and pushes it underneath the machine.

“Allow me, my love.”

“I’m not your love,” Eddie says, but his cheeks twinge pink. “I can do it myself,” he insists, but he makes no movement to stop Richie as Richie takes the lead and fills the jumbo size cup to the top. And once its full, Richie hands it over to Eddie and grabs two straws from the dispenser. “We should probably grab some food here, too, right?” Richie hums in agreement and they head over to the corner of the shop where there are several food stations set up. Overall, the food here is pretty unhealthy. It isn’t as though Richie particularly minds, but he knows Eddie does, because each time they stop for a meal Eddie takes a long time to decide, and he seems to choose while wearing the look of hesitance.

“If you don’t see anything you like then we can wait it out to see if the hotel has anything,” Richie suggests, because he knows the look Eddie wears, all weary and unsure, not wanting to be a bother so he stays quiet.

“No, it’s okay… I like these,” is what Eddie says, reaching out to grab one of the takeout boxes and gesturing to the taquitos. Richie nods and exhales deeply, rubbing his eyes. He is tired. All he does is drive, sleep, eat, and repeat. “What’s wrong?” Eddie asks, because he can always miraculously tell when something is bothering Richie. Sometimes Richie feels like they are so in tune with each other that they are soul mates, but he’s kept that thought to himself, too embarrassed of what Eddie would say if he found out.

“I’m just tired,” Richie tells him. “Been driving all day.”

“I would offer to take over but I don’t have my license,” Eddie says. Richie already knows this, and he wonders if Eddie realizes that he often sounds like a broken record. “Sorry. There must be a hotel close, though. We can’t be too far from one.”

“I’m sure we’ll find one soon,” Richie says, his lips curving upwards in a forced smile. “Let’s get some grub, shall we?” And he begins to pile junk food after junk food into his box. But Eddie doesn’t take as much, only wanting a few things. Perhaps he is thinking about how they don’t have so much money. Richie tries not to think about that fact. When they’ve picked out all their food, they approach the cashier and plop their boxes and slushie on the counter.

“Just this,” Eddie says to the man working the register, who blatantly ignores Eddie. Narrowing his eyes, Richie clears his throat, catching the man’s attention. _So rude,_ Richie thinks.

“Yeah. Just this,” Richie repeats, and the man gives him an odd look, a curious look in his eyes and his eyebrows tightly woven together in the middle, but he rings the two of them up anyway. After hearing the price (which seems far too expensive for fast food), Richie gives the cashier the required money and tells him to keep the change. He feels Eddie nab him in the side at that, his eyes silently asking Richie, _We need all the extra money we can get_ _…_ _what’re you doing?_ And Richie wants to tell Eddie to relax, that it’s okay, but he bites it back and smiles instead, collecting both their boxes of food and shared drink into his arm before calling out a polite, “Good night!”

Back outside, Richie puts their food on the hood of his pickup truck and says, “Let’s sit and eat here. Wanna relax.”

“Okay,” Eddie agrees, and he positions his hands on the metal of Richie’s car before hoisting himself up, his feet hanging off the front. He pats the seat next to him, a silent gesture for Richie to hurry up, and takes his box, setting it on his lap and opening it up to dig in. Richie puts the slushie on the hood of the car, too. “I’m starving. It feels like I haven’t eaten in weeks.”

“You’re always hungry.” Richie laughs, jumping into the seat next to Eddie. He opens his food and messily stuffs himself. He acts as though he doesn’t see Eddie’s disgusted expression out of the corner of his eye.

“You’re gonna choke by eating that fast,” Eddie comments snidely, biting politely into his food.

Still chewing, Richie opens his mouth to reply, “The only thing I’m interested in choking on is—”

“Don’t! You’re so _gross_!” Eddie says loudly, his cheeks burning red. Chewing quietly, he turns his head away from Richie in attempt to hide his blush. But Richie sees, and he smiles. “I can’t believe you actually say stuff like that. How did you have _any_ friends at school?” This is, Richie immediately realizes, the first time they have ever discussed school life. In their months spent together, the past did not come up very often, and so Richie parts his lips and says, in a lick of honesty, “I didn’t have any friends.”

This immediately sets Eddie off. His whole face softens, melts, and he looks sorrowful as he says, “Oh.”

“It’s okay,” Richie states. He wonders why he made that comment in the first place. He didn’t mean to intentionally make Eddie feel bad. “I’ve always kinda liked it like that, anyway.” He does not. “Me, myself, and I, ya know?” Eddie gives Richie a strange look that he can’t place. Richie’s eyes widen. “I mean—I did like it like that—before you. Having someone to share me, myself, and I with is pretty cool, too.” He much prefers it this way, truth be told, with Eddie by his side and the open road ahead of them. Richie has never been very good at being alone. Which is unfortunate, because he has been alone his whole life.

“Sure,” Eddie says slowly, as if he is trying to process all the information Richie unloaded to him. As they sit in silence, both seemingly unsure what to say, Richie watches as Eddie picks at his food idly. “I only had one friend before you, at school. But we didn’t really hang out or anything. Not like us.” _Like us,_ Richie thinks to himself, and he finds himself itching to discover what this _us_ is… friends that live with each other? Friends that have nobody else? “I think he was in your history class. Jeremy. You know him?”

“Yeah,” Richie says. He has a clear image of the boy; he wore baggy clothes and had shaggy blond hair.

“That’s him.” Eddie smiles at the thought of his old friend. “We just ate lunch together, really. And talked during the classes we had together. That sort of thing—like an in school friend only.”

“I see,” Richie replies. “And we’re out of school friends only, right?” he jokes, and Eddie snickers, putting his box of food to the side of his thigh as he gazes at Richie.

“Out of school friends,” Eddie echoes, perhaps testing the label on his tongue. Then he grins and lolls his head back. “You’re my only friend now, Rich.”

“The same to you,” Richie states, grabbing the slushie settled between them and taking a big gulp. He puckers his lips. “This flavor sucks.”

“Does not,” Eddie snaps, grabbing the beverage from Richie’s grip and tightening his mouth around the straw. He looks satisfied. “It’s delicious. Fuck blue raspberry.”

“Fuck blue raspberry!” Richie yelps, his shout thrown into the darkness. Eddie swats Richie’s shoulder. “Ouch, Eds! I’m hurt!”

“Are not,” Eddie says. There is a wave of harsh wind, and Richie notices how Eddie sucks in a quick breath and puts the slushie back down, wrapping his sweater arms around his body instead. “Fucking hell. It’s freezing.”

“It isn’t. You’re just always cold.” Richie purses his lips and finishes up his food quickly. “Want my jacket? It’s in the backseat.” Richie has not worn his jacket in a while, because the fall weather has been nice to him, but to Eddie not as much.

“No, I-I’ll be o-okay,” Eddie replies, his teeth chattering.

“I’m gonna get it for you,” Richie says without waiting another second. Hopping off the hood of his car, he opens the door to the backseat and reaches across the seats to grab his denim jacket that he’d lazily shoved underneath the passenger seat. As he lifts the jacket up, something falls out of his pocket and he squints down at the item. It is a wad of cash, he realizes, and a smile captivates his lips. He doesn’t remember having this much money, but he must have snagged it from his parents before leaving that same night with Eddie. Perhaps he took it off his father’s dresser, or from his mother’s secret stash. Wherever it comes from, Richie is undeniably happy. He slams the car door with the jacket and money in hand and holds both things up to Eddie proudly.

Tossing the jacket into Eddie’s lap, Richie waves the cash in front of Eddie’s face. Richie says, “Hit the jackpot, Eddie Spaghetti! Take a look at this… it’s a whole… twenty, forty… fifty-five bucks!” And even Eddie can’t help but smile as he tucks his arms into Richie’s jacket sleeves. The denim coat looks ridiculously cute on Eddie, too big for his entire frame so it sags over his shoulders and down his torso. Richie bites back the compliment because he is too fed by his recent income. “Fifty-five bucks. Holy moly. And we were running low, too… ain’t that lucky?”

“Real lucky, Rich. We’re livin’ large.” Eddie giggles and buries himself into the warmth of the jacket. “Can we get going? I’m tired.”

“ _You’re_ tired?” Richie gawks as he shoves the money in the back pocket of his jeans. “Try driving six hours without stopping. _I’m_ tired.”

“Try listening to you talk six hours without stopping,” Eddie shoots back, sliding off of the car hood. He grins up at Richie, pleased with his comeback.

“Eds gets off a good one!” Richie says, and he runs a hand through his wildly messy hair. He needs a shower. He can’t remember the last time he washed his hair. And much to his surprise, Eddie reaches a hand out and attempts to flatten out some of Richie’s rambunctious curls. Eddie is silent while doing this, his eyes trained on Richie’s hair with his tongue peering out of his mouth, resting on his bottom lip in pure concentration. For some reason Richie’s breath gets caught in his throat. But when Eddie pulls back and grins Richie seems to remember how the human respiratory system works.

“You need a shower,” Eddie states. “Your hair looks like a bird’s nest.”

“You’ve always been the sweet talker out of the two of us,” Richie breathes. “Let’s get going.”

They both pile back into the car and the engine roars to life. The drive is short, because they find a cheap looking motel on the side of the road and decide to take a chance. Eddie, however, has fallen asleep in the passenger seat, so Richie decides to lock up and go get a room for them on his own. There’s no point in waking Eddie up now, because Richie isn’t even sure they have enough money to stay one night, and he can easily sign in on his own.

Going into the motel, Richie walks straight up to the old woman working the counter. It must be at least eight PM now. He smiles down at the woman and she shows no trace of courtesy.

“How much for one room?” Richie asks.

The woman takes a deep breath before turning her entire body toward her clipboard. Scanning the papers, she says, “For how many nights?”

“Just the one.” Richie hums. The woman scribbles something down.

“Thirty-five,” she says blandly. And Richie guesses he can afford that.

“I’ll take it,” Richie replies, rummaging through his pocket to give the woman the required money. She takes it, counts it, and shoves it into a box. “Here ya go.” The woman slides the clipboard across the counter so that Richie can see it, and plops her pen down onto it with a quiet _click_. “Write down your information.” Gliding her finger across the form, she indicates what Richie needs to fill out and he does so rather quickly, his exhaustion getting the better of him. _I just wanna get a room, lady. I need to shower and relax._

When he’s done, he pushes it back towards the woman, an antsy look on his face as his whole body begins to tremble with impatience.

“All right,” she says slowly. “Breakfast starts at 7 and is served in the next room over.” She lazily points a finger to the room to their right. “It’s free of cost. Enjoy your stay. Here’s your key. Room 555.”

“Cool, cool,” Richie says, grinning. “Thanks… Judith.” He reads her name off her nametag and then turns on his heel to make his way back to his pickup truck. Eyeing Eddie from where he sleeps in the front seat, Richie grins to himself, knocking on the window lightly as though not to startle Eddie awake too terribly. Since the window is open halfway, Richie says, “Spaghetti Man. Up and at ‘em. Room 555 at our service.” And Eddie shifts in his seat before blinking his eyes repeatedly, settling them on Richie’s towering figure.

“What?” asks a confused Eddie. He sits up suddenly and purses his lips. “Oh. How long was I out?”

“Long enough for me to get us a room. Come on, oh tired one.” Eddie groans and rubs his face. “I’ll carry you to our room. Can’t have precious Spaghetti falling over his tired feet.”

“Shut up,” Eddie says tiredly. “I know how to walk, Richie.”

“T’was just an offer.” Richie shrugs and throws his keys at Eddie through the window. “Start up the car and shut the windows for me, would ya?”

“If I must.” Eddie does as he’s told. It only takes a few minutes. Then they are walking to their room and unlocking it, and collapsing on the double bed centered in the room. They have been sharing a bed since this journey began, because a room with two beds is pricier, and because Richie pretends like he doesn’t mind how Eddie’s arms always seem to find him during the night. “I’m so tired. And cold. Boost the heat up.” It is not a question, but an order, and seeing as Richie is going to shower now anyway, he forces himself to his feet and goes over to the thermostat. He turns it up to 72 degrees, hoping that is high enough to satiate Eddie’s needs.

“I’m gonna shower now,” he tells Eddie, but he’s sure Eddie has already fallen back asleep. Staring at Eddie like this, his head shoved into a pillow and the same old clothes clinging to his body, Richie wishes they had more than just the sweaters on their backs. He wishes they were rich, and that they could go shopping for bright clothes and comfortable pajamas, that they didn’t have to strip down to their boxers each night to feel a little more at home. He wishes so many things.

The shower is spacious, surprisingly, but the water pressure is too high and the droplets hit Richie with a jolt every time. It feels similar to being jabbed a million times. But Richie powers through, washing his hair with the motel shampoo and conditioner, gliding his soapy hands over his body in attempt of scrubbing himself clean enough to last a few days. He doesn’t linger too long, because he knows that Eddie will want to shower and that a place as rundown as this motel does not have an endless supply of hot water. So he steps out after a few minutes and dries his hair off, tugging the same shirt over his head and the same boxers over his legs, but leaves his jeans on the railing propped against the toilet.

“Eddie,” he says as he steps out of the bathroom and sees that Eddie is still sleeping. He has not moved an inch. The sight brings a sweet smile to Richie’s face. “Eddie. You’re gonna wanna shower now and not in the morning when everybody else is showering. They’ll use up all the hot water and you’ll be a grump for the whole day.” And Richie knows Eddie is asleep, but continues talking, because sometimes it is easier talking to Eddie like this than when he is awake and snappy. “A cute grump, but still a grump. So get up.” Finally Richie walks over to Eddie’s sleeping body and shakes him. “Get uuuuuup.”

Eddie stirs awake and glares at Richie. “What,” he says, annoyed.

“Go shower, smelly,” Richie replies.

“Go fuck yourself, asshole,” Eddie says, closing his eyes and turning on his side. Richie lets out a low whistle.

“Angry Eddie is angry,” Richie says.

“I’m only angry because you woke me up,” Eddie mumbles. “I was having a nice dream.”

“About me?” Richie teases.

The last thing he’s expecting to hear in reply is, “Yeah. You were there.” Richie feels his cheeks warm. Flattery eats at his stomach and… something else does, too.

But then Eddie lets out a loud laugh, exclaiming, “I got you! You _wish_.” And for some reason, Richie finds himself thinking: _yeah, I do wish._

Eddie sits up and says he’s going to go shower, then disappears into the bathroom and Richie is left alone, nothing but the sound of running water to keep him company. He lays in bed underneath the covers, his glasses on the bedside table, eyes open as he tries to recall a time without Eddie. But he draws a blank. It is so hard to remember life without Eddie, because Richie didn’t really have a _life_ before him. He seemed to be trudging through the world, alone, and then Eddie came along.

When Eddie comes back from his shower, he is drying off his hair with his towel. Perhaps he thinks Richie is asleep, because Richie says nothing and Eddie is facing the cheap TV set, away from him. The sweater Eddie wears is much too large for him, sinking down to his mid thigh, though it is a flattering shade of orange against his olive skin. As Eddie rubs at his wavy hair, his sweater lifts with his arms, and there is a smidge of tan skin revealed to the open. Richie’s eyes immediately dart to that area, and he is disturbed to find a peak of patterned scars. Eddie has scars, and Richie had no idea.

He will ask about them another time, he decides, as he closes his eyes and pretends to be asleep. A few minutes later, he feels the mattress sink beside him, and he hears Eddie’s even breathing. _Eddie’s the best,_ Richie thinks to himself as he dozes off, the dream world beckoning him, _I don’t know what I’d do without him._

 

 

Morning comes too quickly, and Richie blinks awake, the world nothing but a hazy mess, and he stretches his arm out toward the side table in search of his glasses. Slipping them on his face, he squints up toward the ceiling and realizes there are two small arms wrapped around his middle. Eddie’s skin is so, so cold, and Richie wishes his body heat was enough to warm him up. He hears a groan, and turns his head to face Eddie as he inhales deeply, exhaling slowly, rekindling his relationship with reality. And then they are meeting eyes, and Richie realizes he is brushing Eddie’s freckled cheek with his calloused fingers.

“You’re freezing,” is what Richie says, and Eddie chuckles halfheartedly.

“I know,” Eddie replies, shifting away from Richie, untangling their limbs and acting as though they were never lying side by side, sinking into one unit. “It’s been so chilly recently.” But it hasn’t been, and Richie frowns at the thought of Eddie getting sick again.

“How are you feeling?” Richie asks. “Pukey?”

“No. I feel okay.” But he looks paler than yesterday, more worn out. Richie considers suggesting they stay another night and just hang around today. Though he knows Eddie will deny the idea of staying in one place. They both have grown accustomed to being on their feet. “I’m just hungry. And tired.”

“Hungry and tired,” Richie echoes. “Sounds like the name of an indie band.”

“Hi, I’m hungry and this is tired,” Eddie muses, laughing at their idiocy. “And we’re gonna play a few original songs.”

“This one’s called ‘I’m broke and I haven’t showered in weeks’,” Richie adds, and then they are both a mess of giggles underneath scratchy motel bed sheets. Richie wishes he could capture this moment; Eddie is laughing so hard that his eyes are glued shut and the apples of his cheeks are raised so high. They are so happy, the two of them. Richie finds it hard to believe there was ever a time he wasn’t happy, because with Eddie he always is. “Well, hungry… we should probably go get some complementary breakfast.”

“Sure thing, tired,” Eddie says, and he pulls the covers off his body and gets out of bed. Richie watches him with heavy eyes as he goes into the bathroom. “We should ask the front desk if they have any toothbrushes. We didn’t even brush our teeth last night,” he says, his voice loud though it is coming from the bathroom. “They usually have lots of them… don’t they? Yeah there’s a little sign here that says they have them at the front desk.”

“I’ll go ask,” Richie replies, dragging himself out of bed. Stretching briefly, Richie goes into the bathroom and tugs on his jeans from the previous day, grinning up at Eddie as he does. “I’ll be back in a flash, my dear.”

“Not your dear!” Eddie calls as Richie leaves their room. He walks down to the office and grins at the woman behind the desk. It’s Judith.

“Morning,” Richie says. “Do you have any extra toothbrushes? I need two.” Judith gives him a blank look before sighing and rummaging through a box under the desk. She hands them to him without a word. “Thanks a bunch. Appreciate it. Have a nice day.” Heading back to his motel room, he knocks on it and Eddie opens up, looking sleepy as ever. “You’re cute as a button, even so early in the morning,” Richie says, ruffling Eddie’s hair as Eddie gives him a pointed look. The door shuts behind Richie and he goes into the bathroom with the two toothbrushes. He hands one to Eddie and Eddie takes it, quickly getting to work at disposing of his morning breath. Richie does the same, and after they’re done, Eddie gets properly dressed, tugging his pants on and zipping them up with a heavy sigh.

“These clothes must reek,” Eddie comments. “I at least need a new sweater.”

“We’ll hit a thrift store next, don’t worry. They’ll have sweaters for real cheap. Jeans, too,” Richie says, grinning.

“Okay.” Eddie hums. “Where’s breakfast?”

“Near the front desk. Come on. Got all your stuff?” Richie jokes. “Get it? ‘Cause we own nothing?”

“I got it, Rich.”

Breakfast is hardly anything—just a few pastries and pieces of bread, but the boys still steal as much as they can without being called greedy by neighboring eyes. A family of four sits nearby as Richie and Eddie pile food into their arms.

“Grab as much as you can, Eds,” Richie says. “We need to stock up—and hurry, too, we don’t want Judith to give us the boot.”

“Judith?” Eddie recoils, confused. Then he pauses and his grip on the pastries he’s holding falters. One of Eddie’s croissants clutters to the ground, catching Richie’s attention, and Richie furrows his brows at Eddie’s sudden frozenness. “Why are those people looking at us?” Eddie asks, his voice low, embarrassed. Richie turns toward the family and stands taller. “Nevermind. Just ignore them Rich. Don’t bother them.”

“Can I help you?” he asks the family. The biggest man, perhaps the father, gives Richie a stupid look. But then he shakes his head slowly, and glances at his family, murmuring something. They all stop looking after that. Richie bumps Eddie’s hip with his own. “See? If you tell people to fuck off, they do.”

“They’re just eating breakfast,” is all Eddie says, and his arms are full. “This is all I can carry. Are you good? Can we go now?”

“Someone’s antsy.” Richie smiles and nods, gesturing his head to the door. As they walk out of the office area, making their way to Richie’s car, he says, “Let’s hop in the old truck and get going.” He trains his eyes on Eddie’s pant legs, earning a glare from Eddie. “Our next order of business is buying you a new pair of pants. These ones are too big.”

“Could you _not_ look at my ass?” Eddie snaps, cheeks burning. Richie just laughs. Fumbling with his keys, he unlocks the car doors and hops in the driver’s seat, piling all the food he snagged in the middle seat between him and Eddie. Eddie puts his food in the same area and immediately sinks into his seat, sighing. “I missed this shitty car,” he says.

“Shitty?” Richie gawks. “I’m offended. My truck’s a real pretty lady, I will have you know.”

“Sure,” Eddie muses, rolling his eyes. Suddenly he kicks his feet up on the dash. “Get moving, Tozier. I’m thinking about my new jeans. Now you really have to buy me a pair.” Richie backs out of the motel parking lot and heads back on the road, muttering, “Oh, we’re doing last names now?”

“I’ll buy you whatever you like, _Kaspbrak_ …as long as it’s not more than ten bucks. Papa’s not that rich,” Richie says, and Eddie visibly winces.

“Never call yourself Papa ever again,” Eddie says.

“I do what I want,” Richie replies. Turning the radio on, Richie attempts to find a radio station he actually likes, but there seems to be nothing good on right now. After a few minutes, Richie still has one hand on the steering wheel and the other on the radio dial. He grins widely, ignoring the annoyed glare he is receiving from Eddie.

“Can you pick a fucking station already?” Eddie snaps, reaching out and grabbing Richie’s hand. The radio bumps to a classical station, which is Richie’s absolute last choice, but he leaves it alone and watches as Eddie huffs to himself quietly. Richie whistles lowly, attempting to fill the air. Eddie doesn’t always like to talk when they’re on the road. It’s mostly Richie who talks, or sings, or throws pointless questions at Eddie only for them to be ignored.

“You chilly?” Richie asks Eddie, just wanting an excuse to talk to him. Without waiting for a response, Richie turns the heat up a few degrees and points the heaters in the direction of Eddie’s seat.

“Thanks,” Eddie mumbles, perhaps appreciative. He’s cuddled into himself, sunk back into his seat like he always is. Richie wonders if something is the matter, but decides against asking. “You play instruments, right?” comes an unexpected question from Eddie. As Richie glances over at Eddie, he nods.

“Yeah. Guitar and drums—drums are my main, though.”

“That’s cool. I always wanted to learn an instrument,” Eddie admits. He’s facing Richie now, sitting a little more upright, his legs tucked beneath him in a crisscross formation. “My mom never let me. She said it was too noisy.”

“I think I remember you mentioning that,” Richie says. “What would you have learned?”

“Probably like… clarinet.”

“Clarinet?” Richie’s eyebrows are raised. “That’s very…”

“Yeah. I dunno. I always thought it was kinda neat.”

“It is neat,” Richie agrees. “That’s cool. Clarinet is cool.” Eddie hums, turning back to his window, and then it is quiet again. Richie is desperate for conversation, to keep speaking with Eddie. He always feels this way—like he needs to feed into the silence, to never let a moment with Eddie be blank. “Wish there was like… a magic thing that could let us know where the nearest thrift store was,” he says with a chuckle, and Eddie looks over at him. “That’d be so useful. We wouldn’t have to just drive and drive and _drive._ We could actually know where we’re headed.”

“True, but it’s more fun this way,” Eddie states.

“For you, maybe. You’re not the one who has to drive and drive and—“

“—I just meant that this is like, a nice time. With you… You know?” Eddie says, and Richie isn’t sure he knows. He thinks he does. Maybe.

“Oh.” Richie blinks. Then he shrugs, nodding his head. His heart is pounding. It feels like a boulder in his chest. “Yeah. It is nice. Good time for…” he searches for a word, “Bonding.”

“Yeah,” Eddie says. Then he raises his finger and stretches his arm out the window. “Look! There’s a thrift store right there!” And Richie slams his foot on the breaks. Eddie lunges forward and Richie slaps an arm to Eddie’s chest to protect him from the impact. Thankfully there’s no car behind them, otherwise this would have ended far worse. Slowly, Eddie turns his head and swivels his attention to Richie. Richie’s arm is still pressed against Eddie’s chest, tense. His jaw is clenched, eyebrows furrowed. “Why the _fuck_ did you do that?!”

“You scared me,” Richie says. “You fucking _screamed_ all of a sudden!”

“Jesus Christ. Just fucking… turn into the parking lot.” Richie does as he’s told and turns off the engine once the car is settled into a spot right outside the thrift store. “Don’t do that ever again, Rich,” Eddie mumbles, unbuckling his seatbelt. “You scared me half to death.”

“Sorry, Eds,” Richie says, stressed. He runs a hand through his messy hair and lets out a deep sigh. “I didn’t mean to scare you. Didn’t mean to scare _me._ I don’t think sometimes.”

“Most of the time,” Eddie says with a slight smile, rolling his eyes. “Come on, you dope. You have to buy me two pairs of jeans because of what you pulled back there.”

“Sure thing,” Richie replies. “I’ll pick out some shirts. But remember—as much as I’d love to give you the world, I can’t afford to.”

“I’m a cheap date,” Eddie says, and then he blinks, making it seem as though the words left his mouth without proper thinking. “I mean—“ he shakes his head, “Nevermind. Whatever. Let’s go.” And he climbs out of his seat and shuts the door. As Richie rethinks Eddie’s words, he watches Eddie walk over to the store entrance and wave Richie over. Richie gets out and locks the car, meeting Eddie at the front door. He holds the door open and Eddie gives him a curt look. Walking inside, there is an obvious wide range of selection. Both boys make a beeline toward the jeans. It doesn’t take long for Eddie to find a pair he likes. Taking it off the hanger, he holds them up where both he and Richie can get a good look. They are light wash, high waisted, and look as though they’d be a bit small on him.

“These?” Eddie asks, thinking.

“They’d look good,” Richie replies, his hands frozen where they are searching through his size. “You can go try them—the dressing room’s right over there.”

“Okay. I will,” Eddie replies, and he walks off. Richie stands there, staring at the room where Eddie entered, and wonders why he is feeling this way. There is a strange warmth pooling at the pit of his stomach, and his heartbeat seems to quicken at the thought of Eddie wearing those pants. Furrowing his brows, Richie attempts to shake this feeling by continuing his jean search. He finds a couple pairs that he thinks will look alright before deciding he wants to take a look at the shirts as well. But the sound of the dressing room door swinging open steals his attention; he looks over and sees Eddie examining himself in the mirror. Richie feels his face get hot.

The jeans are a tight fit on Eddie, firm against his legs and butt. Richie takes a deep breath as Eddie smiles at himself. He looks over at Richie, says, “What do you think?” and does a cute little spin. Richie’s heart bursts, and he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

“Uh—the—they look good! Really good, Eds.” Mentally wincing, Richie wishes he didn’t say _really good_ in that tone. He’s so strange. Eddie grins at him, and Richie turns back to the jean rack, squeezing his eyes shut. “Really good, Eds,” Richie mutters, upset with his previous word choice. “I’m a fucking dumbass.”

A few minutes pass when Eddie returns with the jeans folded over his right arm.

“Wanna check out the tops?” Eddie asks. “I want a new sweater.”

“Yeah, for sure.” Richie takes his jeans and follows Eddie toward the men’s tops. He watches as Eddie sorts through the knitted sweaters. _Why can’t I focus? Why do I **feel** so weird? Why can’t I stop **looking at Eddie?**_ Averting his eyes, Richie allows his hands to aimlessly search through the collared shirts. There are a few he likes, but they are too plain, not at all like the brightly colored shirts he owned back in Derry. But then there’s _this_ one. A smile tugs at Richie’s lips instantly as he grabs it to get a better look, and he slides his palms against the stripy blue pattern. It is almost a neon blue, cyan, and it has embroidered roses stemming from the hem. It is the most unique shirt Richie has ever seen, and he is sure nothing like it exists elsewhere, but there is a certain feeling in his chest, one that causes him to think perhaps he _has_ seen it somewhere else.

“That thing’s ugly,” Eddie breathes, and Richie whips his head to make eye contact with Eddie; Richie hadn’t noticed Eddie had walked up beside him.

Richie turns his attention back to the shirt. _I know I’ve seen this somewhere before. There’s no way I haven’t._

“Why are you just, like… looking at it like that?” Eddie asks confusedly. He says it with a bit of a chuckle and begins to look through the collared shirts. “I found two sweaters I like. You can buy me those instead of two pairs of jeans. And they’re both only four bucks, so I know you can afford it.”

“Yeah… sure, Spaghetti,” Richie says. He still feels strange, like he’s disconnected from everything, from Eddie, like his body is separating from his mind. Something is… off.

“You should get it,” Eddie says, nodding to the shirt.

“No,” Richie finds himself saying, and then he’s putting it back on the rack, and he wishes he had never taken it off to examine it in the first place. Cautiously, he takes a step back. “No. I don’t want it. It’s okay.”

“Are you okay, Rich?” Eddie asks, and suddenly he is holding Richie’s hands to keep Richie from tumbling backwards. “Are you okay?” he’s asking again, and Richie doesn’t know what to say, his mouth runs dry, his skin crawls, and it feels as though his body is forgetting how to breathe. “Deep breath,” he hears Eddie tell him, and then he’s following Eddie’s breathing exercises, unknowingly, but then suddenly he is okay. He is sitting on the floor of the thrift store, and Eddie is holding him still, and his gaze is stuck to the wall. It seems as though years have passed. Richie doesn’t know what happened. “What happened, Richie?” Eddie asks, his voice wavering, fueled with concern, or perhaps fear.

“I… don’t know.” Richie meets Eddie’s eyes and he realizes his brows are furrowed. He takes a deep breath and his tense expression relaxes. “I don’t know. I’m okay, I was just… dizzy all of a sudden.”

“Okay, Richie,” Eddie says. “You’re okay.” And then Eddie pulls Richie into his arms, and Richie doesn’t know why, or when he began, but he can feel his face hot with tears. “You’re okay, Rich,” Eddie tells him, and Richie is limp in his arms. _Why am I crying?_ Richie wants to ask himself, but he is choked up, helplessly enveloped by Eddie’s welcoming arms. Crying and choked up, Richie doesn’t understand what’s happened to him.

They decide to pay and leave after this, and when they’re back in the car, Richie’s hands on the steering wheel and his eyes on the road, Eddie won’t stop looking at him. Richie knows he’s scared Eddie, and he wants to say _sorry_ or _I don’t know what happened_ , but he can’t bring himself to say anything. He plays the radio loud. Eddie doesn’t complain. It is a no-talking drive for at least a half hour, but when they pull to a stop at one red light, Eddie tells Richie, “I want to change into my new jeans.” And he grabs them from the backseat, leaning too close to Richie in his reach. Richie grips the steering wheel tightly, begging himself to keep his eyes trained on the light. He doesn’t want to let himself look at Eddie, especially not when Eddie is unbuttoning his jeans and slipping a new pair on.

_He’s never been this big of a distraction before so what the fuck is getting into me? It’s just **Eddie.**_

Richie glances over just as Eddie is tightening his belt. Richie digs his nails into the wheel.

**It’s Eddie.**

“Rich?” Eddie asks, his voice soft, and he runs a hand through his hair, tugging on it slightly. It’s at an awkward length, longer than Eddie is used to, Richie supposes. That must be why he fusses with it.

“Eds,” Richie replies. He wears a gentle grin. The light turns green. They go.

 

 

“Where are we today?” is the first thing Eddie asks as he rises from his sleep. Richie looks at him, as Eddie blinks awake, yawns, stretches his arms, and does up his seat. Richie has been driving for hours. The sun has just now come up. Driving in the quiet, with Eddie asleep in the seat beside him, is oddly relaxing for Richie. He loves being with Eddie, even when Eddie is resting, even when Eddie is arguing, or snapping, or singing badly; with Eddie’s presence comes an irreplaceable comfort, Richie has come to realize.

“We are wherever you wanna be, Eddie Spaghetti,” Richie says.

“Disneyland,” Eddie replies without missing a beat. He is smiling real wide. The sight makes Richie’s chest explode with warmth. “You didn’t sleep at all.” Frowning, Eddie knocks Richie’s shoulder with a tight fist. “You need to sleep. Pull over somewhere.” They are on an unknown road. Trees pass them by, but other cars or people do not. “Pull over,” Eddie says again, so Richie does. “I’ll keep watch.” Turning the car off, Richie stifles a laugh.

“You’ll protect me?” Richie jokes, thinking back to the night they first met when they had a similar conversation. And Richie’s voice is just above a whisper as he kicks his feet up and lays as comfortably in his seat as he can manage. His eyes fall closed. “You’ll fight off all the bad guys, right, Eds? You’ll keep me safe no matter what?”

“I’ll protect you forever,” Eddie replies, his voice lilting. “I’ll fight off all the bad guys. Keep you safe no matter what, Rich.” And as Richie dozes off, curled into himself, he pictures the toothy smile he knows is on Eddie’s face.

Richie must sleep for only a few hours, because when he wakes the sun is shining brightly, and Eddie is outside, soaking up the heat by sitting on the hood. He wears his ‘new’ purple sweater, his dirty orange one most likely tossed in the backseat. Purple is a beautiful color on Eddie, compliments his tan skin and his tiny frame. Richie wonders why Eddie didn’t change his shirt in the car, like he did his pants that one time. Strange.

But still, like this, Eddie looks like the kind of person people write songs about, and Richie figures if he had his guitar with him, he would write dozens. Sitting upright, Richie stretches his arms above his head and bumps his hands on the roof. _I need a coffee,_ he thinks. Then he bangs on the glass above the dashboard. This startles Eddie, and he jumps slightly, turns around, and frowns at Richie.

Richie rolls down the window, sticks his head out, and says, “You look so cute out there in your new sweater. Makes me wanna take your photo or something.”

“Shut up, Rich,” Eddie says, but he’s smiling.

“I need caffeine,” Richie says. “Hop in and I’ll drive us to a coffee joint, or something.”

“Okay.” Eddie slides off the hood of his car and climbs back into the passenger seat. “How did you sleep? You were only out a couple hours.”

“A couple is better than none,” Richie replies, and he leans over to collect his cigarette box from his feet. He pulls out a cigarette and lights it, taking a long drag before propping his hand on the window, airing out the smoke. “Let’s do this,” Richie breathes. Car is turned on. They drive, and stop for coffee on the way. It is a small coffee place, by the side of the road, which also serves breakfast and lunch. But Richie isn’t too hungry, and Eddie isn’t either, so they order two iced coffees and ask for them to go. While waiting for their orders, Richie leans against the counter and glances around the shop, bored. There are drawings hung up on the walls, ones of people and of plants. Richie’s gaze snaps back to Eddie.

“You used to draw,” Richie tells Eddie, because the thought comes to him all at once. But once he thinks it he doesn’t know how he forgot. When they first got on the road, Eddie’s drawing pad was practically attached to his hand. Richie wonders what changed, wants to know, but at his statement, Eddie turns his face to the side, lips pursed, eyebrows furrowed, and he crosses his arms, defensive. “You don’t really draw anymore.”

“I don’t really feel like drawing anymore,” Eddie says, and it is a strange thing to hear. Richie recalls that Eddie always felt like drawing. He would draw flowers, Richie’s truck, all the different motels they stayed in… he just always wanted to keep his hand moving, like it was just another tick he had.

“Why not?” Richie pushes, and he realizes he shouldn’t have, because Eddie’s jaw tightens and his fists clench, tugging at his secondhand purple sweater. And Richie regrets. “You don’t have to say if you don’t want to,” he tells Eddie.

“I just don’t feel like it. Okay?”

“Sorry. Okay.”

Their orders are called: two iced coffees, one black and one with heavy milk. Richie grabs them both and hands Eddie his, which Eddie takes silently, not even bothering to say thank you. And he pushes past Richie, heading back to the car without another word, but Richie grabs his arm once they’re outside. Eddie stares down at the sidewalk.

“Look. I’m sorry, okay?” Richie says to him, and Eddie shrugs Richie’s grip off. “I don’t get why you’re being such a dick. I said sorry like ten times.”

“Okay,” Eddie says, crossing his arms. Quiet. Richie shifts on his feet and sighs heavily. Eddie sips at his coffee and puckers his face, like a child disgusted by the taste. Richie can feel a comment budding on the tip of his tongue, the question of _do you even like coffee?_ But he holds it back due to how absolutely pissed off Eddie looks. Without saying anything else, Eddie goes over to Richie’s car and climbs in the passenger seat. This leaves no other choice for Richie but to get into the driver’s seat, so he does, and he puts the heat on immediately. There is no reaction from Eddie. None at all. So Richie starts up the car, and just drives.

This is when Richie first feels as though something is wrong. He doesn’t put the radio on. There is an odd feeling settling across his body, enflaming his skin and eating at his insides, and he doesn’t know why. But then he glances over at Eddie… Eddie staring out of the window, his face blank, his iced coffee clenched between his soft hands, the beading sweat of the cup delicately tracing down his porcelain flesh. And Richie doesn’t know how he knows, or why he knows, but it is definite that there is something wrong with Eddie. He has never looked like this before. Like he’s here but not really _here,_ and Richie is left wondering if this is how he appeared to Eddie when he had a meltdown at the thrift store. Because if it is, or if it is even remotely close, he doesn’t know how Eddie remained so calm, because it feels like Richie’s skin is crawling and like there is a pebble lodged in his throat, the inability to ask _Eddie, what’s wrong?_ _Eddie, won’t you tell me? Eddie, don’t you trust me?_

“It was my birthday,” Richie says. It feels pathetic, to admit this to Eddie now, when he is upset with him, when he is red in the face and not because of Richie’s awfully dirty jokes. Now Eddie shifts slightly, his face slowly turning, his eyes wide, lips pursed, gaze stuck to Richie and only Richie. And Richie doesn’t glance at him. He keeps his eyes steady on the highway, doesn’t want to catch a glimpse of the look on Eddie’s face and foolishly want to take the confession back. Because he knows he will. “The night I met you. It was my birthday.” Something of a laugh leaves Richie’s mouth, and he feels so stupid, stupid, stupid. _Can’t I just take it back? Can’t I just say I’m kidding?_ “Birthdays are supposed to be special. And I always thought that was bullshit. But then… that night in the woods—meeting you, and talking to you, and… and just being with you. That was so fucking special, right? Wasn’t it?” He pleads for an answer, anything out of Eddie, a rile, a ruse, a smack on the head, a sheer comment of _what’re you telling me all this for? Can’t we just drive in silence? Can’t we just sit here for once and not say anything?_

“You and this truck,” Richie breathes. “The only two good things I’ve ever gotten out of my birthday. And the same night my dad gave me this truck, the world gave me you.” He knows he sounds queer, but Eddie’s not _there;_ he’s mixed up somewhere in his thoughts, eyes empty as he gazes over at Richie, chest light, heart beating only out of routine. Richie’s heart beats like mad. Richie wonders if it’s possible to have a heart attack because of nerves.

“When’s your birthday, Eds?” Richie asks, hoping for an answer. Eddie has never mentioned his birthday to Richie, not ever. Glancing over at Eddie, Richie meets his eyes, and something seems to resurface inside Eddie, because he blinks like he is just waking up, and he swallows thickly like he is just adjusting to his body, shuffling in the leather seat. Richie almost repeats himself, because he’s not sure Eddie heard, but then Eddie replies, quivering lip, trembling tone.

“I don’t know,” he says, and Richie just looks at him. Suddenly there are tears in Richie’s eyes, and he doesn’t know what else to do other than pull over at the side of the road, and stare, only stare. Because so many things have gone wrong in Richie’s life; he was born into a family that didn’t want him, only to be treated like a doormat, in his own house and in elementary, middle, and high school. He was at the top of his class but at the bottom of life. That life was the lowest Richie has ever felt. But somehow, right here, right now, the intense look of desperation hidden beneath the silky brown meadows of Eddie Kaspbrak’s eyes… somehow this is worse than all that.

So: _No,_ Richie thinks, _this is the lowest_ , and he knows it is true.

 

 

They have found a river to swim in, to wash their clothes, and bathe. The car is parked to the side of the dazzling blue stream, and Richie stares at Eddie with a lopsided grin on his face, eyes easy, squinting slightly because of the blinding sun. Though it is sunny out, it is not particularly hot, meaning it is not prime time for swimming. Which Richie comes to understand in the furrow of Eddie’s brows and the frown capturing his lips, arms crossed and stance strong.

“Just a quick dip,” Richie suggests unconvincingly. Eddie shakes his head firmly. “We haven’t showered in days. We’ve been sleeping in my car, eating in my car… we’ve barely _left_ that small space.” An idea settles in Richie’s head, and he smirks, leaning against the hood of his car, real smug. “Do you even _know_ how many germs are in there?”

“Way less than a local river,” Eddie says, though he sounds unsure and his hands move to fumble with the loose hem of his purple sweater. “I don’t know, Rich. This is a bad idea.” But Richie doesn’t agree, so he shrugs and pulls his shirt off in one quick motion, no shame. He doesn’t look at Eddie as he tugs down his jeans, and ignores the cold gust of wind that hits his bare stomach and legs. “You’re not actually going in there, right?” he hears Eddie asks, but instead of replying Richie goes over to the river and dips his foot in, testing the water.

“Not too shabby,” Richie says, and then he sits down at the side of the stream, legs in, torso out. He’ll ease himself in nice and slow, as if to adjust to the freezing water without any struggles. But either way it’ll feel like a bad chill on his pale skin. “Come join me, Eds,” he says, the rest of his body going underwater. He dunks his head under and emerges from the water with chattering teeth and pre-pruning fingertips.

“I don’t want to,” Eddie says, approaching the water. He tugs off his jeans. “I’ll dip sit with my legs in.”

“Just your legs?” Richie asks as he watches Eddie sit at the edge of the water. He sits down with both legs in and flinches at the chilling feeling. Smiling cheekily, Richie swims over to Eddie and holds onto both his legs. “My favorite parts of you.” And Eddie stifles a laugh, peering down at Richie with an amused look on his face.

“My legs? Funny.”

“Your legs remind me of mini sausage rolls,” Richie says. Eddie’s face contorts into an expression of mild disgust.

“What the—are those the fucking pigs in a blanket?”

“The best picnic snack!” Richie cheers with a happy smile. After hearing this, Eddie kicks Richie’s grip off his legs and pulls them up out of the water. He hugs them to his chest, though they are soaking. The knitted material of Eddie’s sweater grows damp at the contact.

“God, no! Those things are fucking disgusting,” Eddie replies. “My legs and I are offended.”

“Didn’t mean to offend you.” Shrugging, Richie swims away, turning onto his back to float. “Just meant they’re cute. Like little sausage rolls.”

“Stop saying that. It’s weird.” Silence. “You’re so weird.”

“I might be weird but you’re still the one who ran away with me.” While Eddie is out of Richie’s vision, Richie just knows Eddie’s lips are pursed, face puckered.

“I didn’t _run away with you._ We ran away together, the two of us.”

“Sure,” Richie says, closing his eyes as he floats and floats. The water is beginning to feel nice on his skin, no longer freezing on him but sorting to a manageable temperature. “Call it what you want, Spaghetti.”

“I call it what it _is,_ ” Eddie says. There is the sound of a splash. Richie can’t help but look, pulling himself off his back so he can look properly. Eddie is in the water, but he is wearing all of his clothes. Richie can’t help but bark out a laugh.

“You’re so out of it, huh?” Richie says. “Forgot to take off your sweater, dummy.”

“I didn’t forget,” Eddie says, cheeks flushing a bright red.

“Then… what is it?” Richie asks, confused. Eddie looks quite ridiculous, swimming around in his heavy knit sweater. “That thing must weigh you down a million pounds,” Richie comments, floating over to where Eddie is, and he tugs on Eddie’s sweater, earning him a glare from the smaller boy.

“Hands off!” Eddie says. “I don’t wanna take it off. The water’s too cold.” Though Richie knows there is more to it. Eddie has this stubborn look on his face, the look of _Richie if you bother me about it one more time I’m going to ignore you for the rest of the day._ And Richie doesn’t want that, so he shrugs it off and splashes water at Eddie’s face. Eddie swats Richie on the shoulder.

“Ow!” Richie howls, but it doesn’t actually hurt that bad.

“What’re you always pestering me for?” Eddie asks, and Richie knows it is rhetorical but answers anyway.

“It’s my favorite extracurricular activity,” Richie replies, the ridiculous words flowing off his tongue as easy as the rain from the sky. “Pestering you and hanging out with you are my top two, in case you wanted to know.”

“I didn’t,” Eddie says.

At a loss of what else to say, Richie tells Eddie, “Won’t you have to sit around in that wet sweater now? Because your other one is wet, too.”

Eddie shrugs. “It’s okay.”

“What’re you hiding under there?” Richie asks in a joke tone, a gentle laugh escaping from between his lips. But Eddie doesn’t think it’s too funny; his brows immediately furrow and he swims closer to the edge of the river as if he’s going to get out. “It’s a joke, Eddie. Please don’t get out,” Richie says, and he thinks about how often he has to tell Eddie he’s kidding, as if Eddie isn’t yet used to his sputter of joking bullshit. It’s been months of them together. There shouldn’t need to be any clarification, but when Eddie looks upset with Richie, Richie just doesn’t want him to be mad. So he apologizes, even though he doesn’t think most jokes need apologies. Perhaps he’s just worried Eddie might return to that weird… _state_ he seemed to be stuck in a few weeks ago, when Richie was talking to him, but he knew Eddie couldn’t really hear, that he wasn’t really _there._ Perhaps that’s why Richie’s the way he is, oversensitive and anxious even though he’s gotten good at keeping it inside.

“I’m not gonna get out,” Eddie says, and he splashes water at Richie. “You’re just dumb.”

“You’re dumber,” Richie shoots back.

“Am not,” Eddie says.

“Are too.”

“ _Am not._ ”

“ _Are too._ ”

“ _Am—_ okay, what are we? Five years old?” Eddie asks, and he’s smiling. Richie can’t help but think about how he’s gone too long without seeing Eddie’s smile. Every time Eddie smiles a meadow of flowers blossom within Richie’s chest. He doesn’t know why. Or maybe he does.

He tries not to think about why.

“I’m sixteen,” Richie states, as if Eddie has forgotten. And judging by the reaction Eddie has, he has not.

“Yeah… me too,” Eddie replies slowly, hesitant. Richie tries not to think about Eddie’s birthday, how neither he or Eddie knows the date. Then comes a long silence. Eddie breaks it maybe five, or ten minutes afterwards, by saying, “My fingers are pruning up.”

And Richie replies, “Wanna get out, then?”

“Yeah.” As Eddie slips out of the water, his sweater sags with the clinging weight of the water. Richie gets out, too, and he shivers against the cool autumn air. He knows he must look foolish, but Eddie’s eyes trace him up and down, glued to his pale, boney skin. “For once _I’m_ freezing,” Richie says.

“We don’t have any towels?” Eddie asks, but it sounds more like a statement. Shrugging a shoulder, Richie looks back at his truck and begins to make his way toward it.

“There’s one in the backseat, maybe. We can cuddle underneath it,” Richie suggests.

“You wish.” Eddie snorts, walking over to the car where Richie tugs the backdoor open and pulls out a small hand towel. “What the fuck. Did you steal that from a hotel or something?”

“Must have,” Richie replies, and he holds it out to Eddie. Eddie gives him a blank stare. “You use it first so you don’t freak out over my germs.” Eddie takes it without hesitating and rubs it across his soaking sweater arms, then dabs it across his face. There is a sliver of exposed skin where Eddie’s boxers meet his hips, and Richie looks there, only for a second, to see the same scars he saw before. Except he has a better view now, and the scars are prominent, rising above the skin, curling into a painful pattern of dark lines. But Richie doesn’t say anything, and instead, smiles at Eddie when he hands over the hand towel.

Drying himself off, Richie doesn’t know what else to say, too wrapped up in the definite scars that stain Eddie’s upper body. Are there more? Or do they only spread across his back and stomach like a bad infection? His legs seem okay. Eddie has never had any trouble showing his legs. There can’t be more… can there?

Once he’s done, Richie slings the towel over his shoulder and runs a hand through his wet hair. “Wish we were rich,” he says, emphasis on the _we._ Them. Him and Eddie. They’ve always been a _we._ Never separate. Always together. “Then we could buy tons of clothes and cologne and live in a big house. Could you imagine us as roommates?” There is something of a laugh that escapes Richie’s mouth, and Eddie mirrors his content look.

“That’s a recipe for disaster,” Eddie replies, grinning widely. “But it would be pretty fun.”

“Life’s a party with Eddie Spaghetti,” Richie adds. Then he gestures to their drying clothes on the roof of his car. “How long ‘til those are all done drying do you think?”

“A few hours at least.” Eddie goes over and feels at the fabric of Richie’s washed jeans. “Maybe we could shove them in the back and drive somewhere else, if we wanted. Just set them out to dry.”

“Sounds good to me.”

So they do just that, and Richie tugs on his previously worn shirt and leaves his legs bare as he crawls back into the driver’s seat. He drives happily, bopping his head to the radio and smoking a quick cigarette. The smoke clogs the car, so Eddie rolls his window down with a heavy cough. Richie ignores Eddie’s glare and instead boosts up the heat, as he knows Eddie will need it on for sure if the window is going to be blowing cold air left and right. They bicker and laugh for the ride, getting lost in the meaningless talk they always end up in, and soon enough it’s been hours since their childish swim. It isn’t until they pass a shopping mall that Richie pulls to a stop and turns into a parking lot without any given direction by Eddie.

“We don’t have enough money for this,” Eddie says, wearing a nervous look.

“We’re just gonna window shop. Don’t worry. Maybe we’ll pick up a few extra bucks, too.” This is Richie’s way of saying _I’m going to pickpocket someone_ without making Eddie completely attack him. While Eddie has a set of morals, if Richie doesn’t outright state the wrong he is going to commit, Eddie is willing to turn his cheek and look the other direction, uninvolved in the act but pleased with the outcome. “And besides, it’s not like we don’t have time to kill.”

“True,” Eddie says, and he unbuckles his seatbelt. “Wanna shoplift something for me?”

“Yowza!” Richie shouts, a giant smile blossoming across his face. “Eds, my boy! What’s gotten into you?! You’re wild!” And Eddie’s cheeks flush a warm pink, embarrassed. He opens the door and leaves Richie alone in the car. Richie gets out and locks the doors and together they walk toward the mall entrance. On the way, Richie bumps Eddie’s hip with his own and says, “Whatcha want me to steal for you?”

“I was just kidding,” Eddie says.

“Okay.” There is a brief pause, then a charming, “But I totally would. Ya know. Steal something for you. I would do anything for you, I think.”

“How flattering,” comes Eddie’s bland reply, because he always has, and always will assume everything that comes out of Richie’s mouth is a joke. When this is in fact, not. Richie would wholeheartedly sacrifice everything for Eddie, and he has, realistically, in more ways than one. They’ve run off together, for instance, and Richie left his old life behind to start a new one. One that involves Eddie and only Eddie. “You’d do anything for me? Then how about keeping quiet?”

“You’d miss my voice too much.”

“Doubtful.”

“You don’t fool me, Eddie Kaspbrak,” Richie says. “I’m your best friend. You told me once.”

“I take it back,” Eddie says, covering his mouth as he giggles. They enter the mall and the dazzling shops at either side of them both immediately distract Eddie. “Whoa. They’ve got like every store here.”

“That’s what a mall is,” Richie states blankly, a little confused by Eddie’s amazement.

“My mom didn’t really let me come to places like this,” Eddie admits, and he approaches a clothing store with huge displays and stacked up clothing right at the entrance. “There are so many people and so many germs. She never wanted me to get like, _infected_ or whatever. This shirt is so soft. Look. Feel.” And he grabs Richie’s hand and brings it to a pink collared shirt made with a strangely soft material. It feels easy on the skin, nice, relaxing. Unlike the junk Richie constantly wears.

“I can probably snatch enough money for this,” Richie says as he turns to look at the price tag. “Damn. It’s fifty-five dollars. You’re pricey.”

“No. It’s okay.” Eddie turns away from the shirt and glances around the shop for something else to look at. “It’s got short sleeves anyway.”

“Well what does that matter?” Richie asks. “I wear short sleeves.”

“It’s…” Eddie searches for an answer, “Autumn. Yeah. Too cold.”

“It’s not _really_ , but okay.” Richie doesn’t push for the truth. He knows better than that. He follows Eddie around the shop until Eddie is satisfied with his window shopping, and Richie even offers to steal something before they leave, only half joking, and Eddie swats him on the arm before dragging him out. “I was kidding, Eds! Well… mostly kidding.” Strangers walk by the two boys, and while Richie has always loved to people watch, nobody here really catches his interest. His eyes scan the groups of swarming people, interested, curious, with Eddie at his side watching strangely.

Then there’s somebody.

Richie doesn’t see what they’re wearing, but they zoom past Richie and Eddie quickly, so quickly all Richie catches of the stranger is their scent. Which is familiar.

At first, Richie doesn’t know what to make of this. _Plenty of people wear the same kind of cologne,_ he thinks, but this is different, he _knows._ The scent is mature, rugged, and he thinks perhaps he’s smelled it on a distant relative at one point in his life, or on a teacher he never particularly liked. But no, no, this is so utterly different that Richie doesn’t know what to do, or how to act. Except his body seems to; he whips around all of a sudden, grabbing the stranger’s shoulder, catching them with their stricken eyes and worried gaze. It is an older man, wearing a suit and tie, holding a briefcase, and all Richie can smell is this cologne. This cologne that smells like a father who’s never home, or like a child trying to be sophisticated.

“What is it?” Richie hears Eddie ask, but his eyes are locked with this stranger’s. The stranger looks disturbed, concerned, and shakes his shoulder in attempt to throw off Richie’s hand. But Richie holds a tight grip, and he digs his nails into the man’s shoulder, tightening his hold, unknowingly. “Let him go, Richie,” Eddie says, and Richie feels the weight of Eddie’s hand on his fingers, but he cannot _see_ it. It’s like Eddie’s here, with Richie, speaking and guiding him, pleading, but he is not physically present.

“Get your hands off me!” The stranger finally speaks, and he stabs his nails into the back of Richie’s hand. The man’s cologne is overwhelming; Richie feels awfully faint. “Fucking kid.” The man walks away, pissed off, and Richie is alone.

“Alone—“ The word stumbles from Richie’s lips without him meaning for it to. And it sticks. And suddenly he is on the ground, knees pulled to his chest, staring straight ahead at the glass elevator toward the back of the mall, and Eddie’s gone. “I’m alone,” Richie says, his thoughts mistakenly leaving his mouth. He knows people must be giving him odd looks, but people are always giving him odd looks as of late, so he ignores it and chews on his tongue, stifling the word _._

Richie must sit there, on the mall floor, for a long time. Nobody stops to offer their sympathy, or their help, though Richie is sure he would have pushed them away. The only person he wants is Eddie. There is a lump in his throat, a desperation of _I need him._

And then, just like that, Eddie’s at Richie’s side, his hand on Richie’s knee, soothing, comforting, and saying, “You’re not alone, Rich. I’m right here.”

 _I’m right here,_ Richie thinks, gazing up at Eddie, and he grabs Eddie’s free hand to hold it. He knows they must look strange, but he doesn’t care. Richie says, “Don’t ever leave me.”

And Eddie frowns slightly, a tiredly sad look in his eyes. He replies, “I promise I won’t.”

“Nothing’s wrong,” Richie says even though Eddie didn’t ask. Eddie looks at him peculiarly, concern written across his features, lips pressed in a tight line. “Everything’s okay.” But who is Richie trying to convince?

“I’m right here,” Eddie repeats his statement from earlier, perhaps because he can tell something is not sitting right with Richie, with _either_ of them. “Can you stand up? Are you okay to stand up?”

But Richie can’t feel his legs. He lets Eddie drag him to his feet, and holds tightly onto Eddie as he helps steady him. It feels like Richie’s entire body has melted away, shriveled up and left him with no working limbs. He wonders why he is this way, and why Eddie seems to be, too. Why they both are messed up in inexplicable ways.

“I didn’t steal any money,” Richie says as Eddie leads the two of them back to Richie’s car. Eddie lets out a heavy sigh.

“I’ll grab some,” Eddie says, and Richie is too overcome with sudden exhaustion to make a joke. To comment on how Eddie is the goody two shoes and Richie is the bad boy. He sits Richie down in the passenger seat, claiming the driver’s seat for himself. For a split second Richie thinks Eddie will drive them away, but he doesn’t. They sit with the heat on and the windows shut, with Eddie’s fingers intertwined with Richie’s as Richie fights being lulled into a deserving slumber.

“I love being your friend,” Richie says quietly. He watches Eddie as Eddie shifts in his seat, unsure. “You’re like, my rock. Or whatever. You’re the best.”

“You don’t know what you’re saying,” Eddie replies, cheeks red. “You’re tired. Go to sleep.”

“I don’t think I would be able to live without you,” confesses Richie, and he’s never admitted this thought until now, sitting here with Eddie, the aftermath of whatever happened back there. It rolls off his tongue so easy, and he should be embarrassed, because Eddie takes back his hand from Richie and has this odd look on his face, like he knows Richie has certain feelings he should be ashamed of. But he’s not. Richie doesn’t feel bad about it. He doesn’t even know what it is he feels. He just knows it’s not nothing. “It’s true,” Richie adds, shrugging. He curls into himself, turning on his other side, facing away from Eddie. It is a long while before he hears Eddie’s voice, and it wavers in insecurity, dowsed with doubt.

“You’re talking nonsense,” Eddie says. “You would go on just fine without me. Don’t be stupid. You don’t need anybody. You’re Richie.” And he says the last part with emphasis. _Richie,_ he says.

“Yeah. But you’re Eddie,” Richie replies. “I need you.” And he says this with too much assurance for it to be a lie.

“I need you, too,” comes Eddie’s whispered response, but he looks as though he doesn’t truly believe Richie’s words. Richie says nothing, but waves his hand in front of the fan that’s blowing warm air to try and grasp some of it. Eddie must notice this, because he bumps the heat up a few degrees and looks at Richie smile to himself.

“Maybe I’m the sick one,” Richie jokes, a dry laugh dancing out of his hoarse throat.

“What do you mean?” Eddie questions, not worried or concerned, just curious.

“You were always sick… I used to wake up in the middle of the night and you would be vomiting.” Once Richie says it, he regrets it. He hates those memories. Neither boy knew why Eddie would have such a reaction to everything. It made Richie’s skin crawl, the thought of Eddie being sick, the thought of Eddie—

“I remember,” Eddie says. “It was just something I ate.” But it wasn’t. It could have been a lot of things. Like anxiety. That seems the most plausible, though Richie would never admit it to Eddie.

“Maybe I’m sick,” Richie states, his eyes still wet with the tears he cannot remember crying. And then it hits him all at once—this realization. The last few months have been strange. It’s as if within the long weeks something has been planted inside Richie; it’s a feeling he can’t shake. It’s made him behave peculiarly, with haunting thoughts and blurred out memories. “Maybe I’m all messed up.”

"I think we're all a little messed up," Eddie says, and Richie wants to kiss him. It suddenly occurs to Richie that he has wanted to kiss Eddie for a long time. The distance between them now has never seemed so grand, and Richie looks at Eddie with endearment he has never had for another human being, and he just trusts him. Trusts him with his truck, the clothes on his back, his whole life. And it's queer, sure. But Richie doesn’t feel bad. He doesn’t feel bad when he pushes a loose curl behind Eddie's ear, or when he lazes back in his seat with a lopsided grin of _I like you so much and I don’t think I’ll ever have the courage to tell you._ He only feels good.

Only good.

He doesn’t kiss him. They speak with their eyes. With unspoken words dancing in the air between them, parting lips desperate for confessions, hungry with desire, and Eddie boosts the heat up again. Probably to aid the goose bumps that are most likely budding along his tan skin.

Richie hopes things never change.

 

 

The stars illuminate the light smile playing at Eddie’s lazing lips, parted clumsily, rich and plump, taunting Richie in ways he will never know. It must be two, or three in the morning. Richie lost count hours ago, for they have been sitting on the roof of the truck since the sun was still out and shining. As he smokes, Richie recalls the day they have had, spent driving and stealing and eating, messing around and wishing they could stay young forever.

Glancing over at Eddie, Richie takes a long drag before saying, “Can I ask you something? And have you promise not to get mad?”

“I’m already worried,” Eddie jokes, but upon noticing the somewhat serious look Richie wears he nods, understanding. “Yeah. Okay. Sure.”

“Where did you get all those scars?” Richie asks, because he wants to know. He wants an answer from Eddie, because getting glimpses of the rigid damage done to Eddie’s body is confusing, and painful, and Richie feels as though he should be trusted enough to deserve an honest answer. But Eddie doesn’t budge at all, doesn’t have a twitch in his fingers or a furrow in his brows. The only thing he offers is a blank look. “Don’t look at me like that. It’s freaking me out. I just wanted to know.” Nervously, Richie sucks on his cigarette and squirms on the hood of the car. Being under Eddie’s gaze when he looks like _that_ is so _weird._

“What scars?” is all Eddie says. And Richie stares. Then scoffs.

“Yeah. _Okay_ ,” he says, because is Eddie serious? Getting upset at the mention of the scars is one thing, but lying about them completely? Now Eddie is just being an asshole. Making Richie feel like he’s crazy. “Sure, Eds.”

“Are you okay, Richie?” Eddie asks.

The first thought Richie has, _I haven’t been okay for a long time and I think we both know that._

But he doesn’t say that. Instead he says: “You’ve got scars all over your back and stomach.” And he waves his hand around pointlessly as he rambles. “I’ve seen them. You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to but just _don’t_ make me feel like I’m making it up.”

“I’m not. I don’t have any scars,” Eddie insists, though his hands clutch at his sweater as if he’s afraid Richie will reach out and expose his rough skin.

“Yes you do,” Richie states. “Lift up your sweater.”

“What?! No way!” Eddie says, eyebrows furrowed so hard he has a mountain of creases dancing along his forehead. His eyes are wide and his lips parted in surprise.

“It’s not like I’m checking you out or anything. I’m just trying to prove to you that I’m not crazy!” As he speaks, the cigarette almost tumbles from between his fingers. Eddie eyes it and sighs, running a hand through his hair as he gestures to the smoke tiredly.

“Whatever, Rich. Put out your cigarette. You’ll start a fire with those things one day if you’re not careful.” Richie scoffs, taking one last drag before sliding off the hood of the car. Flicking his cigarette to the ground, he dramatically throws his foot on top of it and aggressively steps the light out. Eddie watches, eyes narrowed, jaw tight.

“Happy now?” Richie asks, annoyed.

“You’re being a dick,” Eddie says, shaking his head in supposed disbelief of Richie’s behavior.

“No, _you’re_ being a dick,” Richie shoots back. “You’re a real fucking dick sometimes, Eddie.” Eddie’s expression immediately turns sour, and he scoops his legs up in his arms, tugging them to his chest as he stares up at the stars. “I didn’t mean that,” Richie says, feeling bad. His words were too in the moment, but that doesn’t mean there wasn’t some truth in them. Perhaps Eddie doesn’t think before he speaks sometimes, but neither does Richie. That’s what makes them such good friends. They’re similar but different. Like all good friends should be.

Eddie watches Richie, his eyes careful. Richie almost doesn’t think Eddie will reply, but then his lips part and his jaw loosens. “Yeah you did,” he says, and Richie sits down in the dirt as Eddie’s eyes return to the sky. There is a tugging at Richie’s heart, telling him to beg for forgiveness, to state that he’s always making Eddie upset and he knows it. Though he doesn’t know why. It feels as though Eddie has gotten more irritable lately. Or maybe Richie has just become more annoying.

“I’m sorry,” is what he settles on. Eddie doesn’t look at him, just continues to glance around at the stars, ignoring Richie’s presence altogether. “For the record, you look really cute when you’re mad at me.”

Eddie bites back a grin.

_You look really cute all the time._

“Shut up,” Eddie says. “I’m sorry, too.”

They smile at each other, and for a split second, Richie thinks they could make something of this. Of the two of them, together, hardly ever seen by other people. Perhaps they could just _be._ Free of all judgment. Wouldn’t that be nice? To be able to hold each other without fearing what is to come? It’s moments like these that give Richie the idea that Eddie would like that as much as he would.

Unable to help himself, Richie says, “You, Eds.”

“What?” Eddie asks with a coy smile. “What about me?”

“It’s just…” Cocking his head to the side, Richie keeps his eyes trained on Eddie. The darkness is overpowering, but it is okay, for with the car headlights on, Eddie has a certain light to him. Richie grins to himself, contemplating. Then he hops up on the hood of the car, sitting next to Eddie again. “I couldn’t imagine doing this with anyone else, ya know? These past few months have been great… I _really_ don’t need anyone but you.” He doesn’t look at Eddie anymore, doesn’t want to see the look on his face. Richie is too embarrassed by his honesty.

“I feel the same way,” Eddie finally says, exhaling heavily, like he’s been keeping the confession in all this time. And maybe he has. “We haven’t known each other very long but.” There is a pause. “You really are my best friend.”

“I don’t think you need to know someone for years for them to be your best friend.” Richie shrugs his shoulder up to his ear, pursing his lips. “You’re my best friend. I don’t care how long I’ve known you.” Eddie hums in reply.

“I always love that,” Richie says, thinking out loud. Sometimes he likes Eddie to hear what he’s thinking. Eddie’s his best friend. “How we can talk about pointless shit and then just have some deep conversation like it’s nothing. Is it always like that? When you talk with friends?” Richie does not realize how devastatingly pathetic the question is until he’s asked it, until he glances over at Eddie’s heartbroken face. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to make it weird. But that’s just what I’m talking about—conversations we have go from fighting to joking to thoughtful to fucking weird.”

“It’s not,” Eddie says. “It’s not always like that with friends. Just with you.”

“Oh.” Richie can feel himself blushing. _Why do I always blush around him?_ “That’s even cooler, then. It’s like an _us_ thing, or something.” He attempts to cover his red cheeks with one of his hands, but knows it is overall pointless. There’s no way Eddie hasn’t seen it, even with only the poor car light.

“An us thing. Yeah,” Eddie agrees.

“A Richie and Eddie thing,” Richie says.

“An Eddie and Richie thing,” Eddie shoots back, and Richie doesn’t need to look over at Eddie to know he is smiling. “That has a way better ring to it.”

“Whatever you say.”

 

 

This gas station is busy this Spring. That is the first thing Richie notices as he gets out of his truck to fill it up with gas. Eddie waves a hand at Richie, saying he’ll wait inside while Richie fills up the car. The second thing Richie notices is the cluster of kids surrounding a large silver car, how their parent is absent, perhaps inside paying for their gas or buying snacks for the road. He lights himself a cigarette and takes a long drag. _Sometimes a cigarette is the best fucking thing,_ Richie thinks to himself, though he tries to angle his body in such a way that Eddie will not see him. He knows Eddie disapproves of his smoking habits.

Richie begins to set up the machine to put gas in the truck. Sticking the gas pump in his car, he fails to notice a little girl walking up to him.

“Hiya, mister,” she says, and Richie’s head snaps to his right, and then lowers, only to meet eyes with this blonde pig-tailed girl. She grins widely, holding onto a sticker book and a stuffed teddy bear as large as the dress pooling over her shoulders. Casually, she stretches a sheepish hand to her shoulder and holds the fabric there as not to let it fall further.

Before Richie says anything, he flicks his cigarette to the ground and stomps it out, not wanting the young girl to get the wrong impression too early on in life.

“Hi, little peach,” Richie says. He crouches down to be at level with the girl. “Where are your parents?”

“Mommy’s inside,” the little girl says, pointing a finger toward the indoor shop. Richie glances over to where her supposed siblings stand, though none of them seem to notice she came wandering over; they are all too involved with their giggles and conversation. “I saw you all alone over here… you looked pretty lonely. I thought I should come say hi.”

“Thanks for coming over,” Richie says, smiling gently. “But I’m not lonely. My friend is in the car.”

Then she cranes her neck as if to try and get a good look at Eddie in the front seat. “ _Oh,_ ” she says, her face falling flat.

“Won’t your brothers and sisters be worried that you’re over here?” Richie asks, not wanting to upset any of the girl’s family. He especially doesn’t want her mother to come outside and yell at him, as selfish as that sounds.

“No. They don’t notice when I’m gone.” And the way the girl says this puts Richie under the impression that she strays from her siblings often. He hopes she won’t run into the wrong person one day. There are too many bad people in the world, and he hates to think that this innocent girl could end up in the clutches of someone so terrible.

“You really shouldn’t leave your siblings when you’re all waiting for your mom,” Richie tells her, a lopsided smile on his face. The last thing he wants to do is sound like he’s upset with her. He just wants to let her know to be careful. That’s all. “Next time try to stay with them, okay? You’re not supposed to talk to strangers. Didn’t your mom ever tell you about stranger danger?”

Nodding, she blinks up at Richie. “I will try.”

“Good.” Grinning, Richie stands up tall again and stretches his limbs above his head. Eyes wandering, he tries to see if he can see the girl’s mother inside the shop, and he can; at the front of the line there is a woman talking to the person at the register. By the looks of it, she’ll be out in only a few minutes. “You should go back over there now. Your mom’s almost done.”

“M’kay,” the little girl says. Then she drops her teddy bear on the ground so she can open up the sticker book she’s holding. It seems to be a collection of different dog breeds, and hearts, and pawprints. It looks like something Richie would have enjoyed as a child. Rummaging through it quietly, she begins to speak in a childish ramble, “Wanna give you a sticker before I go, mister. So you’re never sad and you’re always happy, because stickers are so happy. Which dog do you like? I like these ones because they’re all spotty…” She holds the sticker out for Richie to take, eyes doe-like, smile missing a few teeth.

But as soon as Richie’s gaze settles on the sticker, his whole body tenses; the spotted dog was once between Richie’s own fingertips, and this he knows, because the image is too familiar. His heartbeat quickens, mouth running dry. And his mind goes blank and he seems to lose connection with himself. Nothing feels real. But he knows he himself is slipping away, slowly but so quickly, and then he is alone. He is there but not there. And he can feel the tug on his hand but cannot make it out. Richie wonders how it is possible to be a stranger in your own body. And he ponders when this feeling became secondhand nature, routine, because it has.

He is scared, undeniably so.

Richie is only brought back when he hears a woman call out, “Samantha!” in an angry voice. He blinks, and then he is back, but he never really left in the first place. The little girl, Samantha presumably, looks up at him with curiosity and disgust in her eyes. She now looks at him like he is the scum her mother warned her about. He hopes he isn’t. “Samantha. What are you doing over there?!” The woman approaches Samantha and Richie on hot feet, her face red with anger, at him or her daughter Richie doesn’t know.

“I hope you’re okay, mister,” Samantha says, though she sounds unsure, and she stands up on her tippy toes to stick the spotted dog sticker to his shirt before she grabs her teddy bear from the ground, turns, and waves goodbye. Samantha’s mother snatches her hand, and aggressively tugs her back to her siblings and their car. Richie simply stands there, watching until they all pile into the vehicle and drive away. Still, he feels so heavy but so empty at the same time. _How is that possible?_

“Everything okay?” says a voice. Richie turns to find Eddie speaking through the rolled down driver’s seat window. Staring at him, Richie is stumped. He wishes he would stop getting like this. “The car is getting cold. Get in so we can turn on the heat.”

Richie leaves the spotty dog stuck to the gas pump.

Night comes quickly, and after hours of singing along to the radio and keeping their eyes peeled for a nearby motel, the two boys come to the conclusion that they will have to sleep in the car tonight. But snuggled beneath another motel towel in the front seat of his old pickup truck, Richie cannot sleep. Not being able to find a motel makes for discomfort, but Richie and Eddie always manage, with Eddie in the backseat and Richie in the front. Though tonight is awfully cold, and they have left the car running with the heat on as if not to freeze Eddie to death. Eddie won’t even let Richie have his window cracked open a smidge, ruled by warmth, and Richie’s entire body feels _hot._ The kind of hot where it feels as though your body is birthing humidity, and the hair on your head feels so sweaty you consider shaving it all off at the next chance you get.

“It’s so fucking hot in here,” Richie says, groaning and throwing the mini towel off his body. He thinks about tossing it in the backseat for Eddie, because surely he’ll want it, but is too lazy to grab it where he’s thrown it toward the bottom of the passenger’s seat. “How the fuck are you always so cold? It’s Spring now. Autumn and Winter I get. But Spring? Spring is _nice._ Cool, just how I like it.” And without waiting to hear Eddie’s reply, he rolls his window down halfway and raises his hand to stick it outside. The cold air feels _so_ nice.

“It’s freezing,” Eddie says through grit teeth. “You’re gonna be the reason I catch a cold.”

“You always seem to have a cold,” Richie reasons, shrugging. “So we’ve really got nothing to lose.”

“You’re the worst,” is Eddie’s reply, and Richie watches as he sinks further into his seat, folding into himself as if to trap all his body heat. “Insufferable,” he huffs.

“You like it,” Richie says, but he regrets it immediately. Though Eddie doesn’t exhibit strange behavior to Richie’s words, he can’t help but feel as if there is a peculiar weight to them, like he can’t say it because he gets butterflies when he looks at Eddie… because he’s got a… a _whatever_ on Eddie. “If you really want me to, I’ll roll up the window.”

“S’okay,” Eddie slurs, sleepy. He is facing away from Richie, but that doesn’t tear Richie’s eyes away from him. “Your gaze must weigh like… a trillion pounds. Can feel you burning holes into the back of my head.”

“Sorry.” But Richie still doesn’t look away.

“Not that sorry,” Eddie says with a tired giggle. “Not sorry enough to stop.”

“Guess not,” Richie replies quietly, just above a whisper. He isn’t sure what to do, or say, but Eddie looks so cute like this, all curled up and snuggly. Richie can just barely remember how it feels to be held within those sweater arms. “Hey, Eddie?” Richie asks, and he isn’t thinking properly, not like this. Eddie only hums in response. Perhaps he is only half-listening and that is why Richie says what he says. He asks, “Have you ever kissed anyone before?”

And there is a devastating silence.

Richie tries to convince himself Eddie must have fallen asleep. That sleep is the reason he’s ignoring Richie’s question, that sleep is the reason Richie’s eyes feel so heavy and his cheeks so red. But then Eddie turns over to face Richie, looking nothing but a lump in the backseat, dim light hovering above the driver’s wheel. And he replies, so gently, in such a way that reminds Richie why he likes him so much, “No. I haven’t.”

“Oh,” Richie says. Eddie doesn’t ask if Richie has kissed anyone. Richie doesn’t know what to make of that. _We could practice on each other,_ Richie wants to joke, but then Eddie looks at him. Looks at him in this way he has never looked at him before. Like he **_knows._** And like maybe **_he feels it, too._** The two teenage boys are all eyes, and the joke of consideration is wedged underneath Richie’s tongue. They always seem to find themselves here. Staring. Fear gone unsaid. Richie’s stomach bubbling.

“Eddie,” he breathes, because there is so much he needs to say but will not allow himself to.

“I know,” is what Eddie says, and there it is, up in the air.

Love isn’t supposed to hurt… is it? Is it supposed to hurt this bad?

“I know,” Eddie says again.

Richie wants to say, _If we both know then why don’t we do something about it? Why don’t we just let ourselves **be?** Because that’s all I’ve ever wanted. I don’t know when or how I started feeling this way, but I think it’s making me crazy. Being around you drives me crazy. Do you know that?_

But he goes to sleep instead.

Though he wakes in what feels like only a few hours later to the sound of the car door opening and closing. Eddie stands outside of the car, close to the window, visibly shivering, and he is holding his old orange sweater in his hands, as if he plans to change into it. The car is off now. Richie doesn’t know if Eddie’s turned it off to save gas or if he himself did before falling asleep. _What’re you doing, Eds?_ Richie wants to ask, but it is glued to the roof of his mouth, and he simply watches.

Eddie’s hands glide across his arms, delving into his sweater sleeves and pushing them all the way up to his shoulders. Eddie traces the scars there, and Richie recalls the time when he asked about them, and Eddie had acted like he had not known of any scars. But there they are, the burn scars. They are thick lines risen above honeyed skin. They are a relic of Eddie’s past. Something that Richie does not know about. That he perhaps is not trusted with.

And staring, heartbreak dawning in the depths of his dark eyes, Richie wonders how flames could have once enveloped someone with as cold of a body as Eddie.

 

 

This diner is deserted; as Richie swoops his eyes across the room, all that occupies the empty space are the red and white checkered booths and a small counter. Stirring his milkshake, Richie tries to ignore the feeling of Eddie’s leg against his, rubbing across his jeans and curling around his shoe. He doesn’t know if Eddie is doing it on purpose. He is too afraid to mention it, so he only copies Eddie’s movements. Eddie is wearing his orange sweater again. The same sweater Richie had found him in, and it fits him looser than it used to, sagging across his shoulders and the knitted material now decked out with thumb sized holes.

It has been a full year with Eddie on the road—the middle of August. That means it is also Richie’s birthday. Richie doesn’t know if Eddie knows, because he has yet to mention it, but Richie wants to do something special in celebration. That’s why they’re here. This diner is having a five-for-five deal on the whole entire menu. Richie thinks that’s really lucky.

“Where do you figure we are?” Eddie asks, taking a sip of his strawberry milkshake. The glass is half empty. “We’ve been driving for forever now. We’ve probably gone left and right and up and down.”

“Think we’ve been driving down as of late,” Richie says. “Maybe somewhere near Florida? Alabama?”

“Alabama,” Eddie says with a small laugh. “What’ve they got in Alabama?”

“Dunno. Rednecks, I guess.” Shrugging, Richie slurps up the rest of his beverage and considers ordering another one. Maybe there’s a free refill policy, though he doubts it in a rundown place like this. “And the cutest boy in the world,” Richie throws in casually. He glances up at Eddie and is happy to see blush forming upon his tan cheeks.

“You’re a loser,” Eddie states. “Talking about yourself like that.”

It takes Richie a full minute to realize what Eddie is implying. And when he does, his toes curl and his face gets all hot, the butterflies captivated within his stomach swarming. _Did he just indirectly call me cute? Oh my fucking god he totally did. Jesus Christ. He’s gonna kill me._

Richie’s mouth opens and closes stupidly as he searches for a witty comeback. Eddie looks quite pleased with himself as he sinks back into his side of the booth; arms crossed and flirty smile playing at his lips. “Cat got your tongue?” he asks.

“I—uh, I just didn’t realize how _smooth_ Spaghetti can be,” Richie states, tilting his head sideways. Eddie chuckles.

“I didn’t realize how much you can blush,” Eddie replies.

“Only for you,” Richie says, because his mouth is dry in his embarrassment and he isn’t sure how else to reply. Thankfully the waitress wanders over with two plates of food and plops them both down in the middle of the table. A cheap meal for a pair of cheap boys.

“You enjoy now, dear,” the waitress says, shooting Richie a wink before swinging her hips back toward the kitchen. Richie snorts a laugh and Eddie raises his eyebrows.

“She looked at you funny,” Eddie says.

“Yeah, maybe,” Richie agrees, and he stabs his fork into the middle of one of his waffles. “Everybody’s always looking at us funny.”

“Not us,” Eddie states, dipping one of his chicken tenders into the sliver of ketchup on the rim of his plate. “Just you.” Richie changes the subject, speaking about old movies he remembers watching and making Eddie laugh, chewing with his mouth half open. “That’s so gross. Finish chewing your food,” Eddie tells him, but he’s laughing. So Richie laughs too, and _gosh,_ could it get better than this?

And when their giggles finally die down, and the conversation softens, Richie allows himself to say, “It’s been a year, ya know.” His birthday isn’t as important as a celebration of a year spent together, Richie figures, so he leaves that part out.

“A year?” Eddie asks confusedly. “A year of what?” And Richie’s heart hurts a little, stupidly, but he smiles through it, because it’s like Eddie to forget. The boy can’t even remember his own birthday.

“Nothing,” Richie says, and he finishes eating his food with a heavy heart. He can feel his heartbreak beaming throughout his whole body, he thinks. Eddie doesn’t notice the fatigue Richie suddenly wears, or the way his jaw locks tighter as the minutes pass. It seems as though Eddie isn’t able to pick up on much nowadays. “You gonna finish that?” Richie asks, at a loss of what else to say. He gestures to the single chicken tender Eddie hasn’t eaten, and while Eddie narrows his eyes, he shakes his head no and watches as Richie steals it from his plate.

“It’s incredible how much you eat,” Eddie states, laughing a little.

“I’m Richie-fucking-Tozier, everything I do is incredible,” Richie says with a wink, mouth full of food.

“Yeah. You’re also incredibly _gross._ ”

“But you like me like this.” And with the way Eddie pauses, the way he tilts his head to the side and meets Richie’s eyes, Richie knows he’s saying _Yeah, I do._

Unexpectantly, a teenage girl approaches their table. Richie immediately looks and raises an eyebrow in silent question. Eddie simply seems to follow his lead. The girl smiles politely, attention directed on Richie, and says, “Hey. I know this is super weird but I just… could I draw you? I’ve been trying to practice drawing portraits lately, and… Gosh, I must sound like a creep. You can totally forget this ever happened. I’m sorry to bother you.” The girl stares at Richie as his mouth opens and closes repeatedly, because in the split second it took her to spew out those chain of words, his body has managed to freeze. With his mouth running dry and his hand locking around his fork, so tightly that his veins suddenly bump along his skin. He separates, like all those times before. He knows he’s there, but can’t _feel_ it.

Somebody drew Richie once. This he knows. It is as if he remembers it all at once—the image someone once drew of him. It had been done in a childish manner, scribbled onto a piece of lined paper. Richie had been sleeping when this someone had drawn him. With his curls splayed out across the pillows and his lips parted in drowsy content. In his slumber, someone had studied him with the upmost delicacy and had put his figure to paper. And Richie is sad to have forgotten.

Now there is somebody saying his name. This he knows. But his jaw is locked and his eyes are glued to the far wall, staring off into space as Richie cues out. “Richie,” he hears, said in the quietest, most tender voice. And, “I’m so sorry. Are you okay? Is everything okay? You look all pale… are you okay? Oh shit. You’re totally not okay.”

A hand on his shoulder, shaking him.

His gaze whips to the girl standing beside him, worry in her eyes, brows furrowed, hand still shaking Richie. Exhaling deeply, he leans back in his seat and takes his own hand and places it on top of hers, removing her hand. She looks upset. Richie is sorry to have scared her, but doesn’t say anything other than, “I don’t think I want you to draw me.”

“Okay. That’s fine,” she replies, and her smile is uneasy. “Have a good meal. Sorry again.”

“Sorry if I scared you,” Richie calls out to her as she rushes away and out the door, seemingly abandoning her meal in her quick leave. _Sometimes **I** scare **me**._

Inevitably, his eyes drift to Eddie, who is sitting across from him, looking terrified. The way the girl looked, only twenty million times worse. He looks as though he has seen a ghost, and Richie thinks perhaps he looks ghostly when he submits to that state of mind. That is at least how it feels.

Stretching his arm across the table, Richie reaches for Eddie’s hand.

 _And sometimes,_ Richie thinks as Eddie pulls his hand away, _sometimes I think I scare Eddie, too._

 

 

It is when Richie is still driving, that Eddie lifts up his shirt and gives Richie a front row view of his jagged skin. Richie has his hands on the wheel, whistling happily to the late night radio, when he sees Eddie drop his hands to the hem of his sweater. “Whatcha doing, Eds?” Richie asks, obvious nerves in his tone of voice, his eyes bouncing from the road to where Eddie’s hands are slowly lifting up the fabric covering his stomach. At the sight of Eddie’s scars, Richie immediately pulls over. Carelessly, without thought, presses hard on his signal and pulls over. He stares at Eddie’s skin. He doesn’t know what to do or say. He just looks at the dark scars that curl and bend on the surface of Eddie’s olive flesh.

“I don’t remember how I got them,” Eddie says. “When I try to think back everything gets all fuzzy, and I start to feel anxious.” And for some reason, Richie feels a bit anxious, too. “They’re all really ugly, huh?” Eddie says with a laugh as he drops his sweater again, shielding his spilled secrets from Richie’s eyes. Richie’s heart drops. Eddie really thinks…

“Nothing about you is ugly, Eds,” Richie says, and he wishes he could plant kisses all over Eddie’s body, across the bumpy surface of his arms and chest and back if he would let him. Because Eddie Kaspbrak is the most beautiful person Richie has ever laid eyes on, and Richie could spend the rest of his life with him, and he wants to, so desperately. He wishes they could be kids forever, living like this. Though perhaps a little more wealth would be nice.

“I asked you about them,” Richie remembers, voicing his thought. Their eyes meet. “I asked you about them and you denied even having them. You acted like I was crazy. Why… why would you do that?”

The color from Eddie’s face drains, “What? No I didn’t.”

_Jesus Christ, I could use a smoke right now._

“Uh, yeah, you did. It’s fine if you didn’t wanna tell me then, just… don’t lie to me now about it, okay?” Richie says, chuckling halfheartedly, though it rumbles emptily in the pit of his stomach. “You always make me feel crazy with that shit.”

“I don’t mean to make you feel crazy,” Eddie replies, and there is a lilt to his voice that makes Richie feel strange. “But that didn’t happen.”

That’s when Richie feels his throat tighten. And he makes grabby hands for the steering wheel, or the dashboard, or Eddie, anything to stable himself. Because it feels as though the world is crumbling beneath both his feet, and he doesn’t know what to do, and gosh he’s so _sick_ of not knowing what to do. “Everything is—it’s all—everything is just so fucking _weird_!” Shouting, Richie feels the familiar feeling of wetness under his eyes. “I—I don’t _know_ anything anymore and I—I just _can’t_ —!”

“It’s okay,” Eddie says, and maybe he doesn’t know what to say either.

“Everything is all fucked—fucked up! _God, Eddie can’t you **see that**?_ ”

But Eddie just shushes him. Says, “It’s okay. You’re okay. Everything’s okay.” And all Richie can think is _no it’s not. It has never been okay. Something is wrong. Something is wrong with **you** and **me.** We’re **messed up.** And I think we have been for a long time._ Except maybe he doesn’t think it, because Eddie is replying as if he’s read Richie’s thoughts, tenderly speaking into Richie’s ear as he holds him in his arms, “Nothing’s messed up.” But why doesn’t Richie believe him? Yet his arms around Richie feel so safe and comfortable and why would Eddie lie? Eddie has never been a liar, so why start now? He holds onto Richie so tightly, cares about him so dearly, that he couldn’t be lying. Though there is a battle in Richie’s heart, an aching he can’t shake.

“You’re okay,” Eddie says as he brushes one of Richie’s curls out of Richie’s crying face.

“Are you okay?” Richie asks, looking at Eddie desperately. He feels stupid. Like maybe he shouldn’t have asked. And Eddie just smiles, stroking Richie’s hair and kissing Richie’s forehead. This he has never done before.

“You’re okay,” Eddie repeats. “I’ve got you.”

The weeks pass, and Eddie has Richie. Their car has only stopped for gas, not for food, or water, or to find a room in a random motel. Richie has been driving for so long that he feels as though his hands are stuck to the steering wheel. His stomach hurts, twisting and turning, because all he and Eddie have been eating is leftover junk food from their last gas station run. Richie barely sleeps. But it’s okay. Eddie says Richie is okay. He chants it every night like a prayer, whispers it into Richie’s ear when they are sitting too close for _just friends._ And Richie will smile through sad eyes as he grips the steering wheel even tighter.

Eddie is talking now, echoing some story he’s told Richie a million times. Richie supposes Eddie repeats himself so often because Richie already knows all his stories. Though he lets Eddie yap on and on, and he chuckles when laughter is necessary, holds Eddie’s hand when he looks like he needs it. Eddie has been telling stories a lot lately. Richie thinks that perhaps it’s just to cloud his mind from all the bad stuff, because there seems to be so much of it.

For some reason, Richie doesn’t remember where they’re going. He has driven them west and east and south and north. A year has carried them all over the globe, yet Richie cannot seem to place any of it. His memories are foggy like the windshield in the rain.

Maybe his mind is failing him.

Richie would not be surprised.

“Hey,” Eddie says, catching Richie from falling deeper into his ugly state of mind. Glancing at Eddie, Richie musters a smile and raises one hand from the wheel to ruffle Eddie’s hair. Eddie pouts and fixes his wavy hair with the rearview mirror. “Sorry I’m talking your ear off. I know how you don’t like to drive in silence, ya know? And you haven’t been saying much lately.”

“Yeah, sorry,” Richie replies. “I love listening to you talk, Eddie Spaghetti. Talk all you want.”

“Yeah. Yeah, okay,” Eddie says as he sits back in his seat and kicks his feet up on the dashboard. Today Richie holds his words in for some reason, and simply returns his gaze to the road. “I never told you,” Eddie starts, and Richie can feel his eyes. “I never told you how much I appreciate you being in my life. I thought letting go would be hard. But it wasn’t. Because I had you.”

And Richie’s tongue twists, lips turning down. “Letting go of what?” he asks, because he is not so familiar with letting go. He finds letting things go quite difficult; he has never been one for change.

“Of my mom, of my life,” Eddie continues. “It’s the best thing I ever did. Leaving with you.” Richie is both disheartened, and flattered. Because he wants the best thing he ever did to also be the bravest. He wants to kiss Eddie on the open mouth and not be afraid of rejection, of judgment, of being killed at the hands of people that do not know them. “What’s the best thing you ever did?” Eddie asks.

There is a sign coming up on their right. There’s a rest stop in five miles. Richie puts on his blinker and makes the turn when it comes, thinking about what answer he should give to Eddie. “I don’t really know,” he says finally.

“You don’t know?” Eddie says, and he sounds a little sad, as if he is disappointed Richie did not confess that meeting Eddie was his best thing. “Well. Come _on_. You’ve gotta know.”

“I haven’t done so much. I’m only sixteen.” Richie shrugs.

“So what? There’s gotta be one thing you’re, like… proud of doing. One best thing.”

“One thing I’m proud of doing.” Richie decides to sit with the thought. Then he pulls into the rest stop parking lot and puts the car in park. Eddie turns to look at the building that houses several different bodegas. Richie hums to fill the empty space.

“Lunchtime?” Eddie asks, and he unbuckles his seatbelt. And before Richie can stop himself, his hands are reaching for Eddie’s shoulders, but they freeze in the air, and his lips part in desperate need of admission.

“I—“ Richie starts, but he stops himself. He’s not actually going to do this? Is he? Eddie stares at him with wide eyes and slowly lets his seatbelt slap into place.

“You what, Rich?”

“Nothing,” Richie says, and he unbuckles his seatbelt, too, like it really is nothing. Like he has not been thinking about kissing Eddie since before he realized, or imagined what it would feel like to hold him chest to chest. Eddie looks at Richie, as if to say _you sure?_

Sitting still, Richie licks his bottom lip and takes a deep breath. _Just fucking do it. Just do it. Be brave. Do it. Do it, Richie. Don’t be a coward._

Before he can reconsider, he stretches out of his seat across the middle to meet Eddie in a tender kiss. It is slow, and neither of them do much with it, because they don’t know how. They have surely only known the lips of each other. The thought makes Richie shudder, and he feels Eddie tense. Richie’s hands are on the seat between them, and he cannot feel Eddie’s. The kiss is ugly, and Richie is so scared. But when Eddie finally responds, and Richie feels his hands curl around his sides, they are kissing hungry, making up for lost time even though they have all the time in the world. Eddie’s lips are like velvety pillows, and his mouth tastes like that unfinished can of soda, and Richie wants more, more, but he doesn’t demand so much. This one kiss seems to be everything and nothing at the same time, for they have been _involved_ in inexplicable ways for almost a full year, that this moment is almost underwhelming.

When Richie pulls back he knows he is blushing hard; he feels it all over his body, and he stares at the steering wheel, too embarrassed to even glance at Eddie. _Why did I do that why did I do that why did I do that why did I do that—_

“Oh,” is what Eddie says, and Richie won’t _look,_ doesn’t want to.

“Fuck,” Richie swears. “I’m sorry.”

“No—don’t be sorry. That’s not what I meant. I didn’t mean _oh_ like _oh_ I meant it like… oh. Okay. Fuck.” It becomes apparent to Richie that he is not the only one with a mess of thoughts.

“Sorry, Eddie,” Richie says. “I don’t know why I did that.” But he does.

Because he wanted to. Because it has been an endless nightmare of days without doing it, and he finally broke, finally couldn’t hold back, finally allowed himself to unwind and just go for what he wants. And what he wants is Eddie. Undoubtedly, forever.

“I’m glad you did,” comes Eddie’s voice. He speaks so quiet, so shy. It has been a long time since Richie has heard him like this. “So… is that it? The best thing you ever did?” Now Richie looks at him, stares into Eddie’s eyes, and it is like watching the sunrise, so beautiful, yet soft. And like you’re looking at someone you’ve known for decades in a whole new light. And Eddie’s face is only kind, and Richie does not know why it would ever be anything different. Eddie accepts him. Eddie cares for him. He holds him when he’s sad. Knows how to cheer him up when he’s upset. Eddie is his best friend, after all.

“Yeah.” Richie laughs. “That’s it.”

They never kiss again.

Richie doesn’t have to ask Eddie to know they won’t, because they don’t. It’s never initiated, or talked about, but that’s okay. Because now they hold hands, and cuddle sometimes when it’s cold at night. And whenever Eddie smiles Richie’s heart feels as though it will pop out of his chest. He loves Eddie. There is no way he doesn’t. At this point, Eddie is all Richie has ever known. They have spent so many days together, but Richie never tires of him. While they can bicker and disagree, things are never too rough between them. Though with constantly being on the road, some days are especially bad, but at least they have each other.

This is one of the worst days, Richie thinks, because they are pulled to a stop in the middle of a road, out of gas, and unsure what to do. Their parents never told them what actions to take in this situation, probably because they figured their kids wouldn’t run off at only sixteen. School never gave them a packet on how to hitchhike or the dangers of doing so. _Oh well._

They lean against the car in the afternoon light and wait for somebody to pass by. No cars do. There is nothing and nobody here. It feels like they are in the middle of nowhere. Yet... as Richie stands against the side of his truck with his thumb stuck out, he can’t help but feel as though he has been in this situation before. Out of gas and left with only his thoughts. It is plausible, he figures, to have gone through something similar during his time with Eddie. But then why can’t he place it?

“Eds,” he says, and he dangles both his arms at his sides as he looks at Eddie. Eddie squints at Richie, attempting to see him through the beaming sun.

“Yeah?” Eddie replies.

“You feel kinda off?” Richie asks. “I feel weird.”

“Weird how?”

“Like we’ve been here before,” Richie breathes.

“Huh,” Eddie says. “Like déjà vu?”

“Yeah. Kinda.” _Except more intense_ , Richie wants to say, _so intense that it makes me feel uneasy, and a little sick_. “Think we’ll die here?” he asks, wanting to change the subject from this strange feeling. Maybe if he ignores it it’ll go away.

“Probably.” Eddie snickers. “Why? You scared?”

“I’m shaking in my boots,” Richie says.

Eddie pushes himself away from the car and turns to face Richie. “I’m bored of waiting here. I want somebody to come already.”

“That’s what she said,” Richie states, and Eddie narrows his eyes.

“You’re an actual fourth grader,” he says.

“I think deep down you like my jokes. Just a little.”

“You think _so_ wrong.”

“Yeah right,” Richie says, and he makes grabby hands for Eddie, like a child would with their favorite toy. Compliant, Eddie comes closer and Richie snatches him up in his arms, placing his head on top of Eddie’s endearingly. “I’ll protect you from all the wild animals. They won’t even be able to see you all snuggled up like this.” And he can feel Eddie laugh, the soft rumble in his chest. So sweet. Everything Richie loves. With Eddie’s head on Richie’s chest, there are only some secrets among them. “I don’t need anybody but you,” Richie says, echoing his previous confessions, and he moves his head from atop Eddie’s to hold Eddie’s cheek instead. Eddie stares up at him, honeyed eyes. “You’re all I need.”

“You’re always saying that,” Eddie says sadly. “But it’s not true.”

“Of course it is,” Richie states, like Eddie is silly for ever thinking otherwise. “Who else would I do this crazy shit with? You’re my fucking ride or die, Eddie.”

And that’s when Richie realizes.

It is almost as if he had his memory wiped, because all of a sudden, his memories come crashing down on him. So heavily that he feels a weight on his chest and he falls to the ground. Eddie looks at him, worried. Richie’s mouth is dry, his head thumping, dizzy, and he curls into himself like he has trained himself to, because after so many breakdowns his body is just accustomed. He can’t breathe. It feels like there is not enough air in the world to suffice; his throat is closing up and he doesn’t know what to do. He can’t hear Eddie speaking, can’t feel Eddie’s presence. All is empty.

Because it feels like these _aren’t_ his memories, like he did not actually experience these things, but he _knows_ they are, inexplicably. Somehow he just _forgot._

 _Those same words_ _…_

He had spoken those same words to Eddie. The second month they left home. Back when… when…

( ** _“Eddie? My ride or die? Ride this one out with me. Come on.”_** )

“Eddie?” Richie asks, and he lifts his head up to look around. But he’s alone. So alone.

But then suddenly Eddie is there, stroking his cheek, saying it’s going to be okay, that Richie is okay, and _why is he always saying that?_

“I thought you were gone,” Richie tells Eddie, and Eddie doesn’t say anything. “All of a sudden I—I remembered this time when—we—we ran out of gas and then we went to that house—and—“ Richie knows he must sound crazy, yet Eddie stares at him with such sincerity that it makes Richie feel sane. Tears well up in Richie’s eyes now, the most jarring memory hitting him terribly sudden. “And there was a fire.”

Richie thinks he hears Eddie ask, “fire?” But he doesn’t see his lips move. Eddie looks frozen. Frozen with something, and Richie’s whole body goes still as a certain memory dawns on him—a time when Eddie had been frozen with fear.

 

 

(The sun set hours ago, and Richie’s feet ache as he trudges ahead, waving a tired hand at Eddie, gesturing for him to keep on walking, keep on going, to continue thinking positively in this time of desperation. Eddie is panting, and Richie feels bad. They have been looking for a place to stay for so long. Ten more minutes must pass before Richie sees a large house in the distance. A smile instantly breaks out across Richie’s face as he raises a lazy finger, pointing.

“Eds! _Look!_ ” he shouts joyously, picking up his pace. His walk turns into a run, adrenaline throwing him ahead.

“Oh, thank fuck,” is Eddie’s reply, which Richie only vaguely hears, because his heart is thumping so loud he can hear it in his ears. And the car is still lost, but Richie doesn’t care, they’ve found a _house_. The lights are off, so perhaps the family is asleep, but Richie feels no remorse knocking on the door loudly. But alas, there is no response from the inside of the house—no lights flickering on, no footsteps approaching the door. Absolutely nothing. Richie sees the hope in Eddie’s eyes drop. “Maybe there’s nobody home.” Richie says nothing, but approaches the window beside the door and puts his hand across his eyebrows as he peers inside. “Rich?”

“We’ll just borrow their space for a little while,” Richie says, and he steps away from the door to raise his leg. Eddie immediately grabs his arm.

“What does that mean? What are you doing?” Eddie asks. Richie kicks at the window with his foot, and the glass breaks with a loud _clang._ Wasting no time, Richie does his best to avoid the spiky glass shards poking out from the windowpane as he climbs inside the empty cabin. “What the _fuck_ do you think you’re doing? That’s illegal!”

“Listen—Eds, sweetheart, sugar plum,” Richie starts, fully inside the house but his eyes still glued to Eddie’s trembling frame. “I don’t give a shit about what’s illegal or not right now. I’m cold. I’m tired. I want to sleep. This is the only place within _miles_. Our car broke down and we have no choice. So just… agree to do this? Please?” Eddie looks unconvinced, pursing his lips with his arms crossed, leaning back on the balls of his feet uncomfortably. “Eddie? My ride or die? Ride this one out with me. Come on,” Richie pleads. A few moments pass and Richie starts to think that Eddie will not agree, that Richie will be forced to leave this shelter to stick with Eddie, because they’ve always promised to stick with each other.

“Fine,” Eddie says, shockingly. “But you’re unlocking the front door for me. No way in hell I’m climbing through the window and getting all cut up.”

“Yes!” Richie cheers, a grin glued to his face. “I’ll get the door for you.” It is dark inside, and extremely cold. His arms stretched out in front of him, feeling out his surroundings, Richie shivers as he walks a few steps to the left, searching for the front door. Finding it, he breathes a sigh of relief and pats further down the wood to find the knob. Slowly, he undoes the lock latch and pulls the door open for Eddie. “Easy as pie,” he says. “Now if we could only find the light switch…” Eddie steps inside and slaps the wall to the right of the door. The room is illuminated. While Richie is entranced by the magnificent place they’ve found, Eddie still only looks uneasy and unsure of the situation. Picking up on this, Richie puts a hand on Eddie’s arm and stares into his eyes, “Listen, I know this goes against your moral code or whatever, but I’m sure this family would want us to take shelter here. We’re just kids, after all.”

Nodding, Eddie shuts the door behind him and locks it. “This lock won’t do anything anymore since you busted the window. Now anyone else can break in.”

“Don’t worry your pretty little head,” Richie says, ruffling Eddie’s hair. Eddie glares at him. “I won’t let anything bad happen to you. I’ll protect you _always._ ”

“You’re a _twig._ ” Eddie grins. “You couldn’t protect me if you tried.”

“Sure I could,” Richie replies. “I’ve been protecting you this whole time. The two of us all alone, lost in the woods, in the dark. I did plenty of protecting.”

“Maybe _I_ was protecting _you,_ ” Eddie shoots back, arms crossed and grin flirty as he peers up at Richie. “Did you ever think of that?”

“I didn’t,” Richie admits, and the way Eddie is looking at him is so different. It’s strange, but good. “Should we go explore?” Richie asks, wanting to break the silence. Eddie nods, and takes a step away from Richie to go over to the living room area. There is a brown couch and an orange rug, the walls painted a soft eggshell, and picture frames hung up in practically every spot of the wall. Gazing at the pictures, which are seemingly of the family that lives here, Richie notices a line of stickers trailing down the trim of the wall. He crouches and slides his thumb over the small stickers. There are paw prints, and hearts, and different dog breeds. Richie chuckles.

“What?” Eddie asks, and Richie feels Eddie come up behind him. Then Eddie crouches down beside Richie to see what he is looking at.

“They must have a young kid,” Richie states, gesturing. “Look at all these stickers.”

“I think I used to have that sticker book,” Eddie thinks out loud, and if he bumps Richie’s knee with his own it is only an accident. Scraping his nail to the corner of one of the spotted dog stickers, Richie peels it off and sticks it on the leg of Eddie’s jeans. “You shouldn’t do that. The kid that put them up will be upset one’s out of place,” Eddie says, but he doesn’t remove the sticker, he just stares.

“I think they can deal with one missing sticker,” Richie says quietly. He rises to his feet before Eddie can reply, and makes his way over to the thermostat right above the couch. Eyebrows raised, Richie huffs. “This is fucking weird. Look at this, Eds.” Eddie stands up and eyes the thermostat.

“55.55,” he reads the thermostat and a small grin pulls at his lips. “That’s really cool.”

“Why is that cool? Kinda gives me the creeps.” Richie reaches to turn the heat up, because the house is freezing and there are goose bumps all over his body. This house is most likely nothing but a vacation home; the temperature is so low that nobody could possibly have been here for a while. But Eddie grabs Richie’s wrist and shakes his head, eyebrows furrowed and lips parting.

“You can’t change it,” Eddie says.

“Why not? It’s freezing.”

“Yeah, but 5555,” Eddie says.

“5555?” Richie questions. Eddie is acting a little ridiculous. “What in hell is 5555 and why is it more important than us being warm?”

“It’s an angel number,” Eddie states, looking at Richie a little strange, as if he is stumped Richie didn’t already know. “You don’t know about those?”

“Fuck no. What’s an _angel_ number?” Richie asks incredulously, because _what is Eddie going on about?_

“Angel numbers are cool,” Eddie replies shyly, rubbing his arm. “They can mean a bunch of different things, depending on when you see them in your life… basically it’s a message from an angel.” And Richie stares.

“You don’t actually believe in that kind of garbage do you?” Eddie only shrugs, perhaps a little embarrassed.

“I like that kinda stuff. It always seems to work for me, at least,” Eddie says. “Like… the night I met you… a few hours before I took off from my house, I was doing my math homework, and I got 5555 as an answer for one of the problems.” Richie waits for more context, because while this whole angel number thing seems a little farfetched and childish, the way Eddie’s face lights up as he recalls the night he and Richie met is too good to disrupt. “I figured that was the angels telling me something. And then you talked to me in the woods. We spent hours together. And then we just… picked up and left Derry.”

Turning back to the thermostat, Richie keeps the angel number 5555 in mind. Curiously, he asks, “So what could this be telling us right now?”

“I don’t know,” Eddie says. Richie smiles teasingly, throwing an arm over Eddie’s shoulder as they stand side by side staring at the low temperature.

“Ah, so you’re no angel expert, then.” Eddie shrugs off Richie’s arm and swats him on the back of the head, smiling.

“It could mean literally a million things,” he explains to Richie. “Like, it’s really common for you to see it if something important is about to happen… or when you need to let something go, or someone go. Usually you don’t know what it means until the something actually happens, and you connect it.” While Eddie looks to Richie expectantly, Richie simply nods slowly, biting his lip, feigning consideration. It is no surprise when he turns around and walks to the kitchen, shouting, “So lame, Eds!” over his shoulder.

“It’s not lame!” Eddie calls back. “Just you see!”

“ _Lame_ ,” Richie sings. The kitchen is relatively bland; there are plain tiles on the floors and walls, an empty fridge, a microwave left open, forgotten. “This house is way nicer than my folks’ place.”

“Mine too,” Eddie agrees softly. “I wish they had some food.”

“I wish we’d taken our snacks with us from the car,” Richie admits. “That would’ve been a smart move.”

“I wish I’d remembered to bring my sketchbook,” Eddie says, looking disheartened. For some reason Richie’s heart swells. Eddie has always liked to draw. The day he and Richie ran away, he had insisted they stop back at his house for a quick second, so that he could take all his drawing supplies with him.

“If they’ve got kids here, I’m sure they’ve got some colored pencils and paper around,” Richie says, and he leaves the kitchen to try and find the child’s bedroom, which he does, right around the corner from the master bedroom. There is a small twin bed in the center of the room, with pink polka dotted sheets and several stuffed animals tucked around the pillows. Richie goes to the closet and rummages through bins of arts and crafts, and eventually he finds a notebook and a pack of crayons, which he supposes is better than nothing. He finds Eddie in the master bedroom, inspecting the silky sheets, feeling them between his pointer and thumb fingers. “Here. Found these for you,” Richie tells Eddie, and Eddie peers up at Richie, hesitance written in his eyes. Eddie says nothing, only keeps his eyes trained on Richie as he accepts the paper and writing utensils. It has been quiet so long Richie has lost track of time. Clearing his throat uncomfortably, he asks, “What is it? Have I got something on my face?”

It feels like decades pass before Eddie replies.

“Would you let me draw you?” he asks, and Richie blinks, startled. That is at the bottom of things he expected Eddie Kaspbrak to ask. “I’ve never drawn you before. I wanna try.”

“Well.” Richie is at a loss for what to say. He swallows nervously and pulls his bottom lip between his chattering teeth. It is still _so_ incredibly cold in here. “Okay. I don’t know how good of a subject I’ll be… but okay.” Eddie takes Richie’s wrist and walks him over to sit on the bed. He looks at Richie expectantly, and Richie is unaware of what Eddie wants. “What do I do?”

“Just sit there,” Eddie tells him, and Richie doesn’t think it’s ever been this hard to sit still. Eddie sketches him for a whole five minutes until he shakes his head and rips the page out, slamming the paper and colored pencils onto the beside table. “You look uncomfortable.”

“Can’t say I’m not,” Richie replies honestly. “Maybe you can draw me later.”

Eddie hums in reply.

“Well, I’m beat,” Richie says, standing up from the bed to approach the door next to the bedroom’s bathroom. Pulling it open, he is happily surprised to find a walk-in closet filled with dozens of clothes. “Wow. This family must be loaded to live in a place like this.”

“I always wanted a walk-in closet,” Eddie states, stepping inside and allowing his hands to roam over the dozens of hangers that go down the wall. Richie does the same, but his hands stop their searching as they settle on a striped bright blue button down shirt with embroidered roses blossoming from the hem.

“Yowza, get a load of this…” he says, and without any hesitation, he takes the shirt off its hanger and slips it over his shoulders. Eddie immediately recoils.

“What do you think you’re doing? You can’t do that! That’s not yours!”

“Chill it, Eds. I’m just trying it on.” Richie leaves the shirt unbuttoned over his black tee, and turns to Eddie with a wide smile. “How do I look?” he asks, goofy.

“Like a thief,” Eddie replies, frowning.

“A cute thief?” Richie prompts, but Eddie doesn’t say anything. Taking the shirt off, Richie rolls his eyes. “Fine. Fine. Eddie Spaghetti’s too tired for jokes.”

“More like too tired for your bullshit,” Eddie says.

“ _Oooh!_ ” Richie laughs. “Feisty!”

“Cut the shit. I’m gonna go find a toothbrush.” As Eddie exits the closet, Richie for a split second considers taking the shirt. But he knows it would make Eddie upset with him, so he sighs and hangs the shirt back up, sticking it back on the rack pointedly. “Richie! I found some!” He goes to where Eddie stands in the bathroom, and is immediately entranced by the dozens of bottled perfumes and soaps decorating the bathroom counter. Eddie holds out a toothbrush for Richie, but Richie’s hands find themselves delving into the rich scents of the wealthy family that lives here. Applying some cologne to the inside of his wrists, Richie takes a whiff and is pleasantly surprised. It smells nice. Like something a businessman would wear, or a lawyer. Very professional, mature, and so not like Richie.

“This smells nice,” Richie says, and he waves his wrist in front of Eddie’s face, teasing him with the smell. Rolling his eyes, Eddie stops Richie’s moving hand and smells the cologne delicately. Eddie purses his lips and shrugs. “Not so bad, eh? This family is totally loaded. Think they’ll notice if I pocket some of these?” Richie asks, and he’s already begun taking some of the bottles into his arms.

“You can’t take those,” Eddie says. “Just like you can’t take the shirt. They’re not yours. So _don’t._ ”

“The shirt I get, but—they won’t even _notice_ a few of these puppies going missing. They’ve got so many, and besides, it’s not like they won’t be able to afford new ones.” Eddie glares at Richie, then turns his head and huffs a tired sigh, running the tap water over his minty toothbrush and sticking it into his mouth. “You’re not seriously mad at me, right?” Richie asks, though his hands are still sorting through the bottles, inspecting the labels and silently deciding which would be the best to take. Eddie ignores Richie, so Richie stops his hands and cocks his head to the side, giving Eddie a look that reads ‘really?’

“You’re no fun,” Richie says, sighing as he puts all the bottles back. He takes the toothbrush Eddie snagged for him off the counter and runs it under the water, putting some toothpaste on the bristles before popping it into his mouth. They stand in silence, with Eddie still ignoring Richie and Richie acting as though it doesn’t bother him. But it does bother him, deeply; Eddie is the only friend Richie has ever had, and by default, that makes him the best. When they’re done brushing their teeth, Richie spits in the sink and runs the tap. Eddie does the same and then wanders out of the bathroom. Gritting his teeth, Richie grips the bathroom counter with tight hands and exhales heavily, annoyed with himself.

_Why do I always do this shit? Why do I always manage to make him mad at me? I didn’t even **do** anything._

Back in the master bedroom, Richie finds Eddie already snuggled between the sheets, on the side of the bed closest to the window, furthest from the door to the hallway. Rubbing the back of his neck, Richie is unsure if he is allowed to sleep next to Eddie when he’s upset like this. It isn’t uncommon for Eddie to get fed up with Richie, but he’s never gone straight to bed without attempting to work it out. As Richie turns to go to the hallway, he flicks the bedroom light off and steps out.

But then there is a meek question, coming from behind Richie, from where Eddie lies in the king sized bed. “Where are you going?” he asks, and Richie looks over his shoulder at the lump of bed where Eddie rests. “I’m not mad at you,” Eddie states, because he seems to know Richie needs to hear it. “Just come here.” Richie does as he is told, sliding into the spot beside Eddie, where his body is so close it radiates heat.

“You’re so stupid sometimes,” Eddie tells him.

“I know,” Richie says softly. “I don’t mean to be.”

“I know,” Eddie replies, humming shortly. It is quiet after that, and Richie lies still in the bed, not wanting to crumple the sheets too much or steal too much duvet. Eddie doesn’t shuffle at all, so much so that Richie assumes he fell asleep. But Richie lies awake, eyes glued to the ceiling, recounting the events of the day and how the two of them landed here, with a broken down car miles away, in a house like this. Life without parents is not so different for Richie; his parents did the bare minimum as it was. But life with a new friend is different. Within the first few days of their journey, Richie and Eddie considered going back on multiple occasions. They couldn’t do anything without bickering, or disagreeing with each other, and Richie thought for sure leaving was a mistake. But as the days went by, the two boys fell into an arrangement of friendly bickering, and then it wasn’t so bad at all.

There is a nudge at Richie’s hip, so his eyes swoop over to the pile of sheets between his body and Eddie’s body. He can’t see what’s happening underneath the covers, but he feels Eddie fist a handful of his shirt. Richie wants to ask if everything is okay, but the question is locked inside his mouth as Eddie shifts closer to him. “So cold,” is what Eddie mumbles, and his arms continue nudging at Richie. “Turn on your side.” Without saying a word, Richie turns and tries to maintain even breathing. _What is happening right now?_

Arms worm their way around Richie, enveloping him in a warm embrace, and suddenly the sheets do not seem so cold. The house does not feel like it is 55.55 degrees. Because Eddie is holding Richie, like he was born to do so, with his nose teasing the back of Richie’s neck and his full front pressed against Richie’s backside. _Is he cuddling me? Is that what he’s doing?_

Neither boy says anything more. And Richie barely sleeps the whole night. Though he must fall asleep for a couple hours, and he only wakes when he is itching for a cigarette. Inevitably, he decides to snoop through the cabin to find a pack. He doesn’t know if anybody in this household smokes, but he sure hopes they do, because his fingers are twitching and his lips are quivering.

It isn’t hard to get out of Eddie’s grip, though he does shuffle and mumble at Richie’s sudden absence. Thankfully he does not wake. He has never been fond of Richie smoking.

The first place Richie checks is the living room. There are several cabinets near the couch and next to the television, but none of them have any cigarettes. Richie finds that a bit hard to believe, so he moves to the kitchen and rummages through the drawers. There are batteries, forks, tape, nails… no cigarettes. Richie is at a loss. He is itching for his addiction, for the sweet comfort of a cigarette stuck between his lips. And because he is so caught up in his head, in not having a light, he doesn’t think twice about going over to the thermometer. He is shivering; the house is freezing. And having long forgotten about angel number 5555, he turns the heat up to 68.

Perhaps the cold is what has made him unable to sleep. Perhaps it is being wrapped in Eddie’s arms.

It could be neither.

It is still dark outside, but Richie steps out for some air. His head is foggy, clouded with thoughts of overthinking. As he stands there, arms crossed, teeth chattering, bouncing on the balls of his feet, his eyes drift down to the left of the cabin’s front door, where there is a large wooden bench. It could hold four, but tonight it holds only one, as Richie sits down and kicks his feet mindlessly. His foot hits something underneath the bench, and furrowing his brows, Richie bends down to view underneath. It is pitch black, but Richie can make out a box of sorts. Pulling it onto his lap, he opens it, not giving a damn about snooping, though Eddie would most likely be nagging him if he were currently here.

Miraculously, there is a pack of cigarettes in the box. There are some other things, too, but Richie tosses them aside and lights himself a cigarette, exhaling desperation. And it is an instant release. _Thank, God,_ Richie thinks, holding the cigarette between his index and middle finger, only bringing it up to his lips for quick drags. _I really needed this._

Richie has two cigarettes, but holds onto the whole pack. The first one he smokes until it is at its end, and the second he tosses on the porch carelessly, having smoked only about half. Then he trudges back to the bedroom and goes to put the pack of cigarettes on the bedside table. What he finds makes his eyes widen, his heart pound, his palms sweat… because he finds a drawing of him. Eyes darting to where Eddie lies in bed, Richie wonders if the cigarettes he smoked somehow set his entire chest on fire. That’s what it feels like.

Sometime during the night, Eddie must have gotten up and drawn Richie. It is done in crayons, but it is still undeniably beautiful. Nobody has ever drawn Richie before. He thinks he’ll hold onto this portrait forever; it captures him in a shockingly calm light, with his eyes closed and arms folded across his chest, though his expression is tight and uncomfortable as he sleeps.

 _You drew me,_ Richie wants to say as he shakes Eddie awake. But he doesn’t. He just stands, and stares, feeling strange. Feeling unfamiliar, in a way he has never experienced. Gazing at Eddie in his slumber, Richie wishes he could place his emotions. That has always been incredibly difficult for him, sorting out what he’s feeling versus what he thinks he should be feeling. But isn’t that challenging for every teenager? Doesn’t everybody feel like this?

Ten minutes must pass, with Richie holding the drawing between his greasy fingers, still shaken up, before he gets back underneath the covers. Eddie’s arms do not find him. Richie finds himself oddly disappointed. He does not sleep, but he does feel the house warm up. Though this heat is peculiar, it seems to push past 68 degrees, because Richie is so hot he peels off the covers and sits upright in the bed. Still sleeping, Eddie shifts at Richie’s movement. _This is weird,_ Richie thinks, and he wipes his sweaty forehead with the back of his hand.

Getting out of bed, Richie goes down the hallway, and it is **_bright._** In all his life, Richie has never known a light like this. “What?” he says out loud, because he is scared, and the light is not similar to the light of a lamp, it is red, and fiery. Suddenly he coughs, and though he has been awake for much time, he feels very groggy. “What is this?”

It is a fire, unmistakably.

“Eddie!” Richie calls out, panicked, and he darts back to the master bedroom. Eddie is already awake, at the foot of the bed, confusion and fear written across his furrowed brows. “Eddie, we need to go!” But Eddie is frozen. Richie grabs his arm and shakes him, panting. “What the fuck are you _doing_?! Eddie, now!” He won’t look at him, and Richie shakes him, and shakes him, and the flames are at the door now. Richie can’t breathe. He coughs and pulls Eddie along with him, but Eddie is heavy, and solid. He won’t move. His feet are glued to the floor.

“Eddie! We don’t have time for this, come _on_!” With all his strength, Richie tugs on Eddie’s arm and attempts to bring him to the closed window. But he won’t _move._ It doesn’t seem as though Eddie is really _there_ , and that scares Richie more than the actual thought of being engulfed by flames. Richie’s face is wet, and it dawns on him that he is crying. He doesn’t know when he started, and right now he isn’t sure he’ll ever stop, because Eddie is seemingly paralyzed with fear, and there’s nothing Richie can do to help him. “Eddie, _please_!” Richie pleads, sobbing, because the fire is so close now, and he still has to open the window. “If you don’t _stop_ I’ll leave you!” Richie screams, his throat sore and raw. He doesn’t want to leave Eddie. In one last attempt, he tries to lift Eddie up and manages to drag him a little closer to the window, but Eddie is too heavy, and Richie curses himself for never going to gym class. He is too lanky and weak to carry Eddie any further. “Please!”

The flames are dawning on them, so close, so hot. Richie feels the heat all over his body now. He wonders if Eddie can feel anything in this state.

And then it seems to hit Richie like a pile of bricks, like an answer you suddenly remember during a math test—because Richie doesn’t want to die. He is only sixteen years old. He has his whole life ahead of him, and he has so much to live for; there is no reason he should die now, here, like _this,_ so tragically, with a fire birthed by the end of a cigarette.

And then he lets go of Eddie’s arm.

He rams the window open with his foot, breaking it the same way he broke the window at the front of the house. And he throws himself out the window, and runs, runs, runs. As he weeps, Richie weaves his way out of the woods, down the same way they came, and he doesn’t stop running until he reaches the road. Until he reaches his car broken down at the side of the road. And he cries and cries, and falls asleep on the hood of the yellow pickup.

It isn’t until morning when he wakes, shook awake by a man with a beard. The man looks at Richie, concerned. He is tall, and large, and is saying something. He points a finger at his car and gestures to Richie’s truck. Richie nods, yet he isn’t sure what the man said at all. But Richie gets up and follows him, and lets him hook his car to the back of his own. When they are in the man’s car, and Richie is in the backseat, biting his bottom lip anxiously, he asks Richie if he knows about the fire.

And in a rush Richie remembers.

 _The fire,_ Richie thinks. _I started the fire. And Eddie—_

At the thought of Eddie, Richie feels something on his hand. Swiveling his head to the right, Richie makes eyes with Eddie. He doesn’t remember Eddie being here, with him, doesn’t remember Eddie speaking with the bearded man, or watching as the man explained to Richie that he would bring him to the nearest gas station. Richie doesn’t remember any of that. But Eddie grins at Richie, calm and collected, his eyes a gentle whisper, and Richie grins back, real slow, but kind, deciding Eddie must have been here all along, that Richie just misremembers what happened.

_I started the fire. And Eddie made it out, too.)_

 

 

Richie blinks, and it is as if he is startling awake from a nightmare.

And Eddie is gone.

_He hasn’t been here at all, has he? Not for a long time. Not since the night of the fire, where Richie had selfishly left Eddie alone, to burn. What kind of friend does that? Not a good one. Not a good one at all._

Richie doesn’t know what to make of this, but at the absence of Eddie’s hand in his, he wants to weep. He hopes the ground swallows him up whole, because then at least it wouldn’t hurt this much. Tears pricking his eyes, Richie lets out the loud sob that has kept him choked up. No more holding back. He digs his fingernails under his shirt to the pillow of his skin, because with a heart aching this badly, physical pain is nothing.

And losing Eddie hurts, Richie knows this because his heart feels as though it has been torn in half carelessly. But what hurts the most is not even realizing when he lost him.

That night was too much for Richie, surely, so he must have rejected the memory, blocked it out. That thought makes Richie cry harder. And somehow, along the way of this trauma, Richie had tricked himself into thinking Eddie was still alive, breathing the same air as him, sleeping next to him, when Eddie had never really been with him at all.

It all makes sense, though; as Richie cries, he thinks it over. They both have been behaving strange, and at the sight of the rose embroidered shirt and dog sticker Richie had fallen weak. The same way he fell when he smelled the cologne or the thought of being stuck in the middle of nowhere with no gas. And Eddie had always been freezing, so cold to the touch, and his body was marred with burn scars that he couldn’t remember. Eddie couldn’t remember his birthday, and he always repeated his experiences or memories to Richie, over and over without realizing. He wasn’t really _there._ That was never really Eddie.

Because Richie was just making him up.

Richie doesn’t know how long he cries on the side of the road until someone drives by and offers to go get a tow truck. Richie stumbles over his words and wipes his eyes, though he knows he must look ridiculous to this kind stranger. The stranger returns fifteen minutes later with help, and the tow truck drops Richie off at a gas station so he can refuel his truck. He does so, through more tears, and he ignores the looks people are giving him. He tries not to think about how before, when people would look at him oddly, it was because he was talking to someone who was not really there.

He tries not to think about Eddie at all, but that’s impossible, because Eddie is the only person Richie has ever felt close to, has ever _wanted_ to be close to. And as simply as they had met, they had been separated.

Richie doesn’t know what he’ll do. He has been under the impression he needed Eddie to survive, and Eddie had told him _that’s not true_ and _you don’t mean that_. The thought of not needing Eddie is silly for Richie to think, even now, with his hand on the gas pump, watching the numbers on the screen bump up. Silly enough to drag a smile to his face. “Of course I fucking need you, Eds,” he says softly, to nobody in particular, and he thinks he hears Eddie’s voice speaking a gentle whisper into the shell of his ear.

 _No you don’t,_ Eddie says, or maybe he doesn’t, _you’re Richie-fucking-Tozier and you don’t need anybody._

 

 

The line is long, but Richie patiently waits behind what feels like hundreds of other cars. His right hand drums on the steering wheel, some old tune he can’t truly place. His left adjusts his glasses, an anxious twitch. Just this once, Richie allows his gaze to wander to his right, to the far seat, the space that Eddie used to occupy. It has been weeks since Eddie’s disappearance, and Richie has had a lot of time to think by himself. Missing Eddie brings the most excruciating pain, but Richie has come to realize that just because Eddie’s life ended that night, doesn’t mean Richie’s has to.

It’s a sucky conclusion, but it’s a realistic one.

Richie reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out his box of cigarettes. While the queue is frozen, he pops open the box and tilts it to the side, watching as the sticks roll to the right routinely.

Five cigarettes left.

 _The unlucky five,_ Richie thinks with a sad smile, _five-five-fucking-five-five._

Maybe 5555 meant change was coming. Seeing it thus far in his life must mean that it’s okay to let go of Eddie. Eddie had told Richie the number has a variety of meanings, but that one seems the most logical. Because letting go of Eddie has been the most terrible challenge Richie has ever faced, and it feels as though he will continue to struggle with it until the day he dies. But that’s okay; Eddie’s seat may be empty but he remains in Richie’s heart, and Richie knows that.

And he is alive in the actions Richie makes—like this one. As Richie sits on the parking lot line for Disneyworld, he knows that Eddie would be pleased right now, giggling and smiling like a child who’s dream to go to the happiest place on earth finally came true. Eddie would speak of all the rides he wants to go on, and how they _really_ shouldn’t be doing this, because they’re short on cash and they should spend money on important things only, and Richie would bite back his smile and argue that Eddie’s joy is the most important thing.

Every child wants to go to Disneyworld, Eddie is (or is it was?) no different. Richie the same. Their neglectful parents would _never_ allow them to go to such a place.

Yet here Richie is, pulling into a parking spot. He turns the car off and just sits in it for a second. He traces the dust on the dashboard as he ponders. “The happiest place on earth,” Richie says, echoing his thoughts, and he laughs a little. For the happiest place on earth, Richie is awfully sad.

When he finally gets inside, he walks around The Magic Kingdom at a loss of what else to do. It has become hard for Richie to enjoy himself lately, and he tries not to draw everything back to Eddie, but that is what makes the most sense, and he knows it’s true.

There is a group of five teenagers his age posing with Goofy, and the sight makes Richie crack a smile. They are doing a group pose; some ridiculous arrangement must have been explained previously. He watches the group and looks at each of them. They all are different in height and style, but they each wear a rambunctious smile. There is one girl, with short curly red hair. She’s awfully pretty. And her arm is swung around a taller boy who is a little chubby. He’s got short light brown hair that swoops across his forehead in an interesting fashion. The three others are crouching on the ground near Goofy, gesturing up at the costumed dog in a hilarious way, as if they can’t believe it’s _the_ Goofy. The boy on the right has a mop of tight brown curls atop his head, the boy in the middle has straight auburn hair that is slicked back gorgeously, and the last boy has dark skin and cute short black hair. The last boy’s smile seems to shine brightest.

The group finishes their photo with a howl of laughter. They speak to Goofy briefly before breaking away, yet Richie still cannot bring himself to tear his eyes from them. These teenagers seem like a group of kids Richie would spend time with in school, had he not been an outcast at Derry High. He wonders what their names are, and if they’re locals, or if they’re traveling far like himself. He supposes he must look too long, because the girl meets his eyes and flashes him a charming grin, a grin that says _caught ya looking._

The girl turns to her friends and says a few words before she toddles over to Richie. As his eyes widen, he wonders if it is too late to act as though he hasn’t been studying these teenagers for the past few minutes, if it is too late to walk away like nothing happened. And it is, because the girl puts her hand on his elbow and stares up at him. Richie towers over her and cannot do anything but smile back at her, because while she is behaving strangely, she is also being polite.

“Hey,” she says. “Couldn’t help but notice you checking out me and my friends over there.”

It is in this moment Richie realizes he has only been speaking to Eddie (himself?) for the past year, and he thinks he must have forgotten how to speak with other people. Panicking, he thinks _quick, say something fun so she won’t go away, so she won’t go back to her friends without introducing you first._

“What can I say?” Richie says. “Goofy kicks ass. I’m jealous of that picture, is all.” And the girl parts her lips, and she is _laughing._ He’s making the girl _laugh,_ and he feels a spark of happiness in his gut.

“Goofy does kick ass,” the girl agrees, humming. “Well, does this number one Goofy fan have a name?”

“Richie,” he says. “What’s your name?”

“I’m Beverly.” Beverly turns away from Richie then, and for a split second, Richie thinks maybe he’s bored her, and she will return to her friends. But to his surprise, she waves her friends over. The rest of the group approaches with wide smiles, eyes locked on Richie. “Guys, this is Richie.” They each introduce themselves, and they’re so nice. There is Stanley with the curls, Bill with the soft eyes, Mike with the pearly smile, Ben with the reserved grin. And this is the best Richie has felt in a long time. While these people are strangers, he believes they will not always be.

“What’re you doing in Disney by yourself?” Mike asks, and there is the question Richie had not realized he had been dreading. He doesn’t know what to say. His hands clench into fists at his sides, and his throat is tight, jaw clenched. _What do I say to that? What do I **say**?_

“You came alone?” Beverly echoes.

“Nah,” he says, and he thinks of Eddie and the angel number 5555. He thinks of the experiences to come with these new friends, about the impact they are sure to have on his life. He hopes to stick around them for a long time, and he thinks they wouldn’t mind, because though they only just met, there is something about this group that makes Richie feel more at home than he has felt in a full year. Perhaps Richie is not okay, like he so often tries to convince himself, but he has faith that one day he will be. And so he manages a smile. “I came with a friend… but he had to go.”

**Author's Note:**

> i hope u enjoyed!!! if u did feel free to drop me a comment or an ask on tumblr @finnwolfhard


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